A Revenant's Love Story
by michellemybelle25
Summary: The Vicomte makes a final attempt to keep Erik out of Christine's life.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters; they are from various versions of Phantom of the Opera.

OK, so this is chapter one of what is a pretty long story. This was the other one I wrote while on vacation, and I truly had no idea it would end up as long as it did when I started writing it. Limited editing time between kids and rehearsals means that this will have to be done a chapter at a time, so please bear with me. I'll do the best I can not to keep you waiting long! I promise! :) Enjoy!

SUMMARY: The Vicomte makes a final attempt to keep Erik out of Christine's life.

"A Revenant's Love Story"

Raoul de Chagny grimaced his absolute distaste to be traversing the dank, dark pathway through the corridors beneath the opera house. Three weeks back and an ill-fated night with a threat of death at its culmination had left the Vicomte swearing that he would never set foot on this condemned bridge to hell again, and yet here he was, calling himself foolish at every turn and bend in the trail that would lead him to the doorstep of a murderer.

"Ludicrous," he muttered between curses under his breath, but as he insisted to his dwindling sense, he had no intention of repeating the last performance of these events. No, this time it would be he who had the upper hand, and noosed ropes would not matter. Let the monster attack; physical games to establish superiority were about to seem trite when the heart broke without a fist to be its cause. A broken heart…, oh, more than that, a _destroyed_ heart.

"Monsieur Vicomte."

A soft call shook Raoul from his reverie and reminded him that the projected outcome he'd been envisioning still needed its final bricks laid into place, hence a clandestine meeting in the recesses of the catacombs. "Monsieur daroga," he greeted in return with more gentility than he typically would have granted a foreigner. A modicum of respect existed between them despite their vast, immeasurable differences; a commonly shared glimpse into the face of death certainly had a decided way of uniting its victims. "I'm pleased to see that you received my note. I had to take extra precautions to be certain no one else intercepted it by mistake."

The daroga was a small man in stature compared to the broad scope of the noble Vicomte, and he only appeared further a contrary as he nervously kept his dark face ducked and half-hidden in the shadows beyond his oil lantern. Frantic glances were being cast into the depths of encompassing blackness at every angle under the unqualified fear that something would leap out at any moment as he could practically already feel the choking sensation of invisible nooses about a bare throat, and he quietly muttered, "I had to be equally as careful; if he suspected anything at all, if he even had one iota of a consideration of your plan, …Monsieur Vicomte, Erik is not a tolerant or a forgiving man. We were fortunate to be granted mercy once. He would never make such a mistake again. You believed torture chambers and nooses were horrors; you have no idea what he is truly capable of."

Raoul tried to appear unaffected by the warning, but his own actions gave him away as he peeked into the far darkness before straightening defiantly. "I refuse to be at his whim; he will not be the ghost always in our shadows, monsieur. That is why we are doing this. I will not live the remainder of my life with his threat in the background."

The daroga shrugged his narrow shoulders uncertainly. "But he let you and the young mademoiselle go free. He bid you to leave and have your happy ending."

"Yes, and at quite the cost. I told you as much in my letter." The true extent of his recent suffering came to the forefront in one honest look, saturating to every creased corner of blue eyes. Suffering, …more like agony.

"How is she?"

Heaving a desolate breath, the Vicomte admitted somberly, "As well as one could expect. After every trauma she's endured, it's a blessing that I've been able to reach her at all. That first week, I doubted I'd ever get her back. The doctor called it a breakdown; he blamed her anxiety and the horrors she was put through by that madman. That night was the last point she could handle; it was finally too much."

Not a single word he spoke and had written proved to be of any surprise to the daroga. He had seen Christine as they had fled the opera house that last night, and nothing of herself had remained in her eyes; every glance had been empty and had shown only a hollowed void within her. The Vicomte insisted it was Erik's fault; the daroga wasn't as sure. "You said in your letter that she wouldn't say a word. Is she speaking again yet? Has she said anything about any of this?"

"She _is_ speaking again," the Vicomte confirmed, "but she refuses to utter a single word about that monster. Can you begrudge her that seeing as how she was nearly forced to be his _wife_? She doesn't want to recall it, but I fear that it tortures her mind anyway. She very nearly had to sacrifice everything to save my life; in all of her silent days, I would wager that was all she could ruminate upon."

With the occasional glance yet about, the daroga abruptly asked, "And where is she now? Not at the de Chagny mansion surely if I am meant to play my part in this scheme of yours."

"Of course not. I sent her off to my aunt's country estate, and I will join her there once I see this task completed. I want to make certain that it is as authentic as possible so that he has no choice but to believe."

"Monsieur…." He was shifting on his feet in the face of the Vicomte's determination, knowing his own lack of enthusiasm was vividly spread along his features. "Must we truly do this? It just seems so…malicious and indecently cruel."

"Indecently cruel?" the Vicomte retorted. "Do you not recall that he was as prepared to kill you as he was me without a single qualm or consideration to friendship and loyalty? You were his friend, and yet in that situation, your life meant as little as mine. I cannot call this cruel so much as justice."

"But, monsieur-"

"No, this needs to be done, and _you_ must be the one to do it. He will believe you in spite of everything; I've no doubt of that. _Please_." The Vicomte was not the sort of man to beg for anything, but this was the one time when no amount of money could buy what he wanted. Christine, her heart and soul, there was no price for such treasures. "This is the only way, Monsieur daroga," he added desperately. "He'll never leave her be; you know that as well as I do. He'll come after her and seek to steal her away again and again until he finally destroys her. No matter what you think of my reasoning, consider Christine. She cannot have any sort of decent life with him lurking in our periphery."

Christine…. And arguments faded with the known fact that the Vicomte was right. Erik was not a man to lose or to surrender anything; it had even been a surprise to Nadir that Erik had released them in the first place, …released the only woman he'd ever loved to a future with another man. Nadir had to conclude that Erik's seeming good will was only a temporary respite. A man who loved that fiercely did not just give it up. But still one thought nagged at his brain, and he insisted with a rush of compassion and regret, "This will _kill him_, Monsieur Vicomte. I don't think you realize the full extent of what you intend. Amidst all of the horror and sin of his life, Erik truly does _love_ her."

The Vicomte's jaw immediately tightened as his words struck a yet-gaping wound within and tore it open once again. Yes, the monster loved her, _his_ fiancée, _his_ love as well. Erik with his deformed face had dared to touch her and kiss her with his disfigured lips right in front of Raoul as he had had to helplessly watch, unsure where the line of pretending ended and reality began. For the Vicomte, that was the greatest trauma still clouding his own judgment with its sting, but he did not let on of it to the daroga, nothing beyond clenched teeth and a solemnity as he argued without waver, "Yes, and his love is as damning as his hate. You speak to me of _his_ well-being; well, my only concern is _Christine's_. Hasn't she endured enough at his hands and all because he supposedly _loves her_?" The demand was spat with bitterness as thrusting a hand into his pocket, he withdrew a folded scrap of paper. "Give him this, Monsieur daroga. He will want some sort of proof; here it is, written in her own hand. She composed its secrets a few days after we last left this place during her silent quarantine. Once I saw it, I knew that this would be my answer. He cannot argue or deny her own words. Give it to him, monsieur, when you tell him." That was it. Details laid in place, and the Vicomte cleared his throat, vying for detachment as he continued, "I must get back and make sure all of the loose ends are tied. I cannot afford a single mistake, for both Christine and my own life."

"Mine as well it would seem," the daroga somberly added as he clutched the blasphemous parchment between trembling fingers.

"I will contact you once I have left the city and send word where I can be reached. I want ample notification if anything at all goes awry." He was about to leave, about to turn away and let the wheels spin in their motion, but he dared to assure with the conviction Nadir lacked, "We're doing the right thing, Monsieur daroga. He let her go to live her life with me; this is just insurance that he won't ever change his mind."

Even as he nodded, Nadir carried skepticism that knotted his stomach until he felt nauseous with every breath. The right thing…; if this _was_ the right thing, then why was he so loath to agree to its content? And why, when pain had been the prevalent emotion through this entire ordeal, was there only more at the crux of this plan? Pain, and he was about to be its primary cause with one uttered lie.

Nadir waited until the Vicomte disappeared from sight, en route back into his world before daring to finish the trek into Erik's. The paper in his hand was searing him with its letters even though he had yet to uncover a single word, so certain that he'd rather guess than know he was right. Every one was about to be its own little dagger, piercing hearts, causing damage, and creating gaps for the blood to leak out in rivulets. This small folded paper was the equivalent of a murder weapon, and even if it was a lackluster attempt, Nadir was to be its wielder.

With weighted footsteps, Nadir came upon the doorway to the house on the lake and hesitated, knowing that this was his final chance to change his mind before outcomes were set. No, no, this had to be done, and he had to be strong…for Christine Daaé and her misfortune of becoming the sole focus of Erik's obsession. She did not deserve that.

Before he ever entered the concealed doorway, the ominous stillness of the dark corridors was pierced with frantic pitches from a bellowing piano's suffering strings and pounded hammers. Music was a loose definition for what was pouring out; this was the audible sound of a damaged soul, agony in pitches and melody interlaced with the dissonance of anger and temper. It stole Nadir's breath from his lungs with its potency. Erik's music had often carried such an effect for him since his first introduction to its exquisiteness, but usually it was a direct result of a beauty not meant for the world to hear. His reaction now was caused by its blatant heartache, almost like the final fall of some majestic angel. …God's angels would indeed fall to such a song. Nadir was reminded of Erik's initial deception and the day he had gushed the details to the skeptical daroga of his plot to disguise himself as an angel for Christine, a plot already in motion before the daroga could have ever attempted to stop it. An angel, …the Angel of Music. Typically, Erik did not share any facet of his life with anyone, and that included his seeming friend Nadir, but he had considered his approach with Christine to be brilliant and couldn't help but boast a bit. It had been the only time in their lengthy acquaintanceship that Nadir had ever seen Erik happy in any sense of the term, and his happiness had nearly been as frightening to behold as his anger.

Loath to intrude on the serenade he was eavesdropping upon, Nadir was as silent as he could be turning the knob and stealing into the warm glow of the house. Any other visit would have left him pondering how oddly cozy it was despite the depth below ground, how Erik had truly transformed a seeming cave into a home with every implied emotion that that term brought to mind, but tonight's view was altered from usual. A foreign sense of anguish was already thick in the air, deceptively masked by the safety of firelight, and as Nadir glanced about, he took note of the mundane changes in his surroundings, things he would not have noticed unless he was looking. Objects were missing here and there, random knick knacks, precious treasures, and as he warily made his way down the narrow hallway to the occupied music room, following a piano's cries, his eyes were caught on wreckage and casualty, the remnants of those lost mementos, the shattered evidence of fits of temper and lonely rage. So many broken pieces in various colors and sizes, some glass, some resin, intermixed in places like a splattering of unique art. Yes, even Erik's destruction would seem to leave a thing of beauty in its wake.

The daroga had barely arrived in the doorway when so suddenly that he jolted with his surprise, the music halted mid-chord and hastily broke off. Well, he knew that Erik sensed _everything_. And as such, the unmasked virtuoso behind the piano abruptly leapt to his feet and spun about to face his intruder bitterly.

"Daroga," Erik greeted tightly, glaring cold with narrowed eyes as every unspoken insult attached was etched to precise telling along the nuances of displayed, malformed features.

"Erik," Nadir stammered back nervously, trying to deny his instinctual urge to shift and sway on his feet. No, he bid to himself, no giveaways to a man who would deduce and interpret every one. "How are you doing?"

A grating chuckle was his initial answer, amused and utterly unnerving in its timbre as Erik rubbed distractedly at his scarred cheek before suddenly recalling its exposure. With a groan of annoyance, he rummaged about for his mask, never once considering that despite its absence, the daroga had given nothing that could be taken as an unpleasant reaction. Still, the mask was replaced and secured before Erik dared recall that propriety insisted he give some sort of answer. Words, he insisted of himself. And yet what words could possibly exist to sufficiently capture his current frame of mind? So instead, he chose to snap, "I haven't seen a single glimpse of your interfering presence since the night you betrayed our unusual companionship and aided that damn Vicomte and his gallant quest, and you dare to suddenly inquire about my well-being? Since when has such a detail mattered at all to you? Or is this guilt I am being faced with and a misguided attempt at penance?"

"You have every right to be upset with me," Nadir attempted as calmly as he could manage. "To your consideration, it would seem a betrayal, but if you would care to look at it from my view, you'd see that-"

"I wouldn't care to look at it from your view," he interrupted sharply. "And you have no excuse that I will take. But don't worry. I've well learned my lesson. I ignorantly dubbed you as a friend; I will not be that naïve again. One would think that I'd have realized long ago to trust no one but myself, but…the mistake was made, and it cannot be undone."

"Erik, don't be ridiculous. You were beside yourself that night; I felt I had no choice-"

"You _always_ had a choice; you just made the wrong one. And in my effort not to go through with killing you where you stand, I insist that you leave my house. I've spared you once already, and you well know that I've killed for far less than the injustice you have done me. Get out." Erik was gesturing to the door but had already made his dismissal as he stalked back to the piano and its rested keys and threw himself upon the bench, pounding out one long, aggressive chord.

"Erik," Nadir interrupted, raising his voice to rival the instrument's volume, but he was being blatantly ignored as more chords resounded. "_Erik_!" he practically shouted, and knowing exactly how to break into music's trance, he added loudly, "I have news about Christine."

All at once, the tone cut off again, even the leftover ring halted to silence as frantic eyes shot back up with a certain impatience and fury intertwined. "What did you say?"

"Christine," he nervously muttered, feeling the assault through eyes alone. He wondered how anyone could possess the power to hurt a person in a look, but then again, Erik wasn't just anyone. Apprehensively stammering, he posed, "Well, …it's been three weeks. Have you…heard anything of her? …Seen her at all? …Checked in on her?"

"Three weeks?" Erik repeated with a modicum of surprise. "Three weeks, truly? I…hadn't realized. I've been busy."

"Composing?"

Erik nodded frantically. "A new opera…for Christine, of course. I thought…I thought I'd surprise her with it when she returned."

A chill overtook Nadir from head to toe and left a shudder as its evidence. When she returned…. He almost cowered; the hope in Erik's mismatched eyes was just so toxic, so masochistic in its way because once it was gone, …it would obliterate him to nothing. And Nadir hesitated. "A new opera? …Well, then I suppose that means you haven't been eating or sleeping or doing anything else for that matter. You take to musical binges as normal people do to alcohol and forget every space between sober jaunts. I've always feared that one of these days, you'll neglect to come out of it at all."

Shrugging off words and open concern, Erik rambled, "I'll eat when she returns, and as to sleeping, I know I shall only be able to do so again when she is at my side. So don't worry over me, daroga. She _will_ return, and I'll live on."

"You're so certain of that."

"Well, of course," he snapped, slamming shut the open manuscript set before the piano's keys if only to have some task to busy his suddenly shaking hands. "You would not understand how I can say that and know it to be true. It is beyond your comprehension, but Christine and I have a bond that nothing could ever break or destroy. She'll always come back to me."

"But…you let her go," the daroga argued, noting how vividly the Vicomte's fears had merit.

"Well, yes, I had to. You don't know Christine as I do, daroga. She can be confused sometimes when she is being tugged too firmly in too many directions, and she can be weak. She let that Vicomte twist her all up inside, but that last night…oh, that last night…," the light of a disconcerting bliss was bright upon his masked face as he insisted, "she knew she loved me. She _chose_ me, and my God, she _kissed me_. You saw it happen. I did not force her or manipulate her; she did that of her own free will. She knew exactly what she wanted at that moment, but there were too many doubts yet in between, all inspired by her milksop Vicomte. I never wanted her to ever wonder if she made the choice because I coerced her. And I was confident that if she saw that I loved her, _truly_ loved her enough to give her up, she would finally be strong in her own heart. You'll see what I mean, daroga, when she comes back to me. I expect her at any time now, especially if it's been three weeks already. She's likely just seeking the easiest way to escape the Vicomte's watch." His apparent elation was frozen in a sort of suspension with one recalled point, and he suddenly pushed, "You said that you had news of her? What news? …Or is it exactly as I said? Has she left the Vicomte?"

Nadir faltered and dared to demand, "And if she hasn't, what then, Erik? Will you go to her and carry her off again? Will you take the extent of the decision out of her hands as you've done before?"

"Oh, don't say it that way," Erik retorted back. "You speak it as if I have forced emotions upon her, and I have done no such thing. As I said, she is confused, and if she has not yet left the Vicomte, it very well could be because he won't allow it. To admit that he has lost to a disfigured monster is quite beyond his capabilities. And therefore going and fetching her myself is just and not the sin you're implying it would be. She _loves_ me, Nadir; carrying her off would be a blessing to her."

"Would it really?" the daroga muttered to himself. He repeated the Vicomte's assurance in his head once again; what he was about to do was for Christine. It was the only way Erik would ever let her go. Keeping a somber expression, he forced himself to speak, knowing that hesitance now would seem valid and solemnity warranted, that sympathy would be genuine in spite of words that held no meaning in their context. "Erik, …I have to tell you something…, and I'm not quite sure how to say it, …especially to you. It's…a tragedy, …an awful tragedy. …Christine…is dead."

The expression upon a masked face was blank and unreadable, the fixed stare searching for the crack that would mean a lie, but beneath the pretense, simply the utterance of such words made his heart drop like a leaden weight within the cavity of his chest. And even as he remained unconvinced, he fisted his hands atop his lap so that Nadir would not notice the subtle shake that was quickly growing into a constant quiver. "You're lying," he accused and commended his own control that not even a catch could be detected in his voice. "I truly cannot fathom the depth of your betrayal. You choose to side with the Vicomte and his arrogant ways, and now you dare come into my home and utter such a slander. What are you hoping for? Tears? Pain? Some unimportant proof that I still have a heart after what I did to you?"

"No, no," Nadir muttered back with a firm shake of his head. "I'm not lying to you, Erik. I truly had thought that you already would have known; the news is all over the city, but you haven't left the house in three weeks so it is no wonder. …She's dead, Erik; she…she took her own life."

"No," Erik stated firm and inarguable, eyes bearing into Nadir with an internal blaze of fire. "_No_, how dare you stand there, my so-called friend, and post such blasphemies to my ears? Get out of my house, and shall we meet again, your neck will be in my rope."

"It's the truth, and no threat you throw at me is going to change it. Here." His hand trembled, but he extended the crumpled note out before him as he took the few steps that put him almost gullibly within Erik's reach. He had faith that his offering would be the very key to saving his life. "In her own hand."

It took a concentrated effort to make fingers uncoil and snatch the paper for himself, and Erik knew that his shaking was an undeniable reality that told his fears even as he kept up an indignant façade. Quickly unfolding the scrap, his unfocused eyes immediately recognized her elegant penmanship with every loop and scrawl to her letters. Yes, this was in her own hand. In a soft voice, he spoke those cloistered words, unsure why he was sharing their burden but unable to stop himself.

" 'My dearest _ange_. You have broken my heart for the last time. Once again you have seen it fit to make my choice for me and decide how I will love. I chose you; I laid heart and soul vulnerably at your feet, but that wasn't enough. It couldn't be. You prefer to control the workings of my heart than trust their secrets. You wanted a prisoner to be chained to you and your love, not an equal to love you in return. And it didn't matter that I professed my devotion to you in one kiss. You never wanted devotion; you wanted power, the power to decide how and why I will love you. It never was considered that I already did. My heart is gone, ripped free of ribs and bone, and an open wound is in its place. You wanted a heart you could manipulate, and in your selfishness, you've taken mine. For what you've done, I'll hate you to my death; I only pray it comes quickly to take me away from this anguish of living. You have destroyed me, Erik, and made me as damaged as you yourself are. I loved you…. I loved you, and you condemned me….'"

That was all; the rest of the page was severed and gone, and as the last of her accusations soaked into his skin and sought to poison the blood coursing within, a gasped sob was sucked sharply past parted lips. "No," Erik moaned miserably, cradling that scrap of a letter in suddenly desperate hands. "No, no, no, it can't be the truth. She wouldn't…, not if she loved me…. She loved me, Nadir…. This letter is proof, and she wouldn't…." He couldn't even utter the sin, his head shaking an urgent denial.

"As you said," Nadir stated, his own voice choked with unshed tears, "she was confused. This entire situation was some sort of trauma for her; they say she wouldn't even speak a word for days. And it was just too much, Erik, …too much. All of the horrors put upon her shoulders. …She couldn't take any more; it finally broke her beyond repair. …She…she's gone, Erik. I'm sorry, but…it's true."

His head was reeling, fluctuating dizzily between fragments of Christine's own words and the daroga's fitted details. His Christine, alone and broken, believing he'd let her go because she had _freely_ loved him. …Oh God, what had he done? "No, no," he was whimpering, clutching the note to one temple and grasping his masked face between violently shaking hands. "No, I won't believe it. She isn't…dead. She _can't be_ dead! She's supposed to be mine! I love her!"

Every lie had left a burning sensation upon his tongue, and as Nadir watched the tears filling blue and green eyes and cascading over a masked face, he hated himself for every fabricated deception. But…it was too late to go back now.

"Erik…." Solace was uncommon for both of them, and unsure how to offer it, he patted an awkward hand upon Erik's quivering shoulder. "…God has a path for everyone and every creature upon the earth. Perhaps she was simply being set upon hers."

"Her path was with me!" Erik exclaimed vehemently. "Her path is inextricably entwined with mine! Don't you understand that? Why can no one see it? She is my _everything_! My very reason to exist! She is my verity and my life; she is the only one to show me that I am not a monster, that I can be more…_for her_. I can't _live_ without her!"

"Erik, no!" It was his tone, his determination that finally made Erik lift his heavy head and meet his stare.

"What do you mean _no_?" Erik snapped, anger vibrant and peeking through the center of pain. "You came here today, and you _destroyed_ every bit of me! What is left? This is no world that I live in, Nadir! This is no _life_! The rest of the human race despise me, spit upon me, have treated me as if I haven't even the right to exist and breathe, as if I am _nothing_! _She_ was my salvation, and I…I…. Oh God…." Bending suddenly in half, tensed down every muscle, he sobbed, his heart leaking out through every tear's essence. Words made no sense, comprehension gone; all he could do was gasp her name over and over again, clinging to a single word when it was all that was left.

"Erik, …I'm so sorry." And Nadir meant it. Never before had he seen a man so feared, so powerful, so unexplainably strong considering all he'd endured in his lifetime crumble to a fallible human being. This was not the mad Opera Ghost who had despaired Christine's loss that last night; no insanity to dim the blow, no hope to present an ever-flickering rescue, nothing but a man mourning the only fraction of happiness he'd ever been granted. And when music had given a beautiful anguish upon his arrival, sobs were an exquisite lament as final as a requiem, filling the small, lonely house and filtering out to echo emptily into the catacombs.

* * *

'I loved you, and you condemned me….' Those final words and their bitter accusation were looped in an unceasing spiral that pirouetted mercilessly through Erik's brain. Condemned…, _killed_ her; killed replaced condemned, a more accurate conjecture. Killed…, dead…, gone….

Tears only ceased when they ran dry and none remained, when an agonized heart felt empty of all matter that symbolized life. …Dead….

It was with an eruption of temper and threats too tempting to be indulged that Erik finally got Nadir to leave him be. Oh, how he longed for peace and solitude! And yet once he had it, it tormented him and made him regret the loss of a sordid friend.

Alone…, and Christine would be alone…. Dead….

It took only minutes for Erik to devise a plan beneath the persistent voice of denial that continued to speak hope, and within the moment that the idea was born, he concealed himself in a thick cloak and hat, hiding within his persona as he abandoned the catacombs for the first time in three weeks. Three weeks…. He still could not fathom time's passage. It was too easy to lose long minutes and hours within the music; Christine had once teased that if not for her lessons, he would willingly remain buried in notes and melodies and never come out to life and the world again. He had never told her that she had been right, that it was only the induction of emotions she inspired that brought reality back and an impatience to burst his musical bubble and go to her instead. Then music had no longer been a pleasure so much as a way to bide his time in between her visits. Nothing else had needed to exist in between because nothing else could amount to her. …Christine…, dead….

His heart ached painfully within his chest as if to remind him that even as bruised and battered as it was, it beat on. It had to, no matter if he only longed for it to stop and end in succession with hers. Why beat at all if it had lost its syncopation?

No…no, he would not think of it yet….

It wasn't difficult to steal into the de Chagny mansion, not for a mastermind ghost who haunted opera houses at every spare moment. Not a sound gave away his intrusion as he stalked the hallways, seeking out one particular presence, astounded by the unexpected stillness and quiet to the house and its corridors. Quiet…like a house in mourning.

"Don't bother to call for help." Erik prefaced his own entrance into the study with a threat, already certain what he would find: the Vicomte de Chagny sitting solemn and somber with a liquor glass in hand before his lavish hearth. "You'll be dead before they ever get here to save you."

Raoul stared coldly at his masked intruder, stoic and condescending as ever, the very rival for the heart of the woman he loved, and that point made his pretense as real as any actor on the stage as he narrowed bitter eyes and demanded, "What do you want? Haven't you caused enough damage?"

"Murderer," Erik accused sharply, stalking to tower over the Vicomte's seat. Yes, the Vicomte triumphed in stature, but Erik was bearing enough pain and rage to kill him without a thought if he so chose.

"Murderer? You, monsieur, are the murderer between us. All the lives taken and now…now Christine…." It wasn't difficult to call upon tears, not with one consideration of sitting at her bedside as she had stared out unseeing for days, not with the thought of the admissions in a letter, ones that still wounded his heart to know. She loved _him_, the madman and murderer, through it all, and Raoul could only ever wonder in every silent musing why then she had gone willingly with him that night, …wonder but never dare question.

"It's a lie," Erik insisted without sway. "It _has to be_; she is alive and well; you're keeping her somewhere. You can't accept the truth: that she loves me."

"I wish to God it _was_ a lie," Raoul fervently insisted. "I wish to God that she hadn't concluded that her only option was to…take her life rather than deal with what you had done to her. She was a _shell_ after that night, monsieur, a _shell_, empty and hollowed out. She was _nothing_. And no matter what I did, I could not save her."

"No," Erik snapped back, a step away from lunging.

"You still don't believe it?" Raoul demanded, swiping away tears. "Check the obituaries in the paper, check the doctor's report, the death certificate. Will that be enough? Or will you have to dig up her beautiful dead corpse to believe it as truth? Will you need to hold her, lifeless and gone as I did?" Tossing the liquor glass upon the coffee table, Raoul stood up at Erik's level and flatly stated, "I _found her_, monsieur, when she did it. I _found her_ body, wrists slit, blood…, dear God, the blood…. I have _that_ image of her to take forever with me as mine, and to know that she did it because of you…. I would argue that _I_ have the right to be killing _you_ this time."

Behind Erik's murderous eyes flashed images, the very ones created by the Vicomte's words: Christine, laying deceivingly asleep, the blood tangled in her curls, staining her gown…. And as vision built upon vision, he suddenly shoved the Vicomte back into his chair and fled the mansion amidst a pain so intense that it was unbearable to breathe through it.

Raoul stared after him, relieved that it hadn't come to blows or nooses. He had no doubt that he had taken care of their problem and had finally legitimately beaten the Opera Ghost.


	2. Chapter 2

They used to call him a corpse; they saw his face, and it was a mélange of insults, each and every one vividly recalled and endured again in nightmare's sphere. He had been forced to learn to detach himself from every unpleasant situation or else risk losing his soul in the chaos of cruelty. Corpse…, a corpse who lived and breathed, who suffered emotion like every other man. For the first time in his life, he was wishing to indeed be a corpse but by its standard definition this time, entirely devoid of life, but he couldn't even seem to do that right. He survived when he yearned to be dead, as dead as she was.

Christine…. He was being haunted by her ghost, her image moving as a revenant through his head, singing so sweetly in his ears. He couldn't seem to be rid of her; not even losing himself in his music could steal the vision or the agony it brought with every fantasy. She would materialize practically between molecules of air, but the instant he would reach out, desperate for one touch, one idle caress, she would be gone, an apparition vanished from sight. Never to touch, never to hold, …never again.

Death would have been welcome, but despite his insistences against it, the daroga refused to abandon him completely, ignoring lapses of temper and fury, determined as usual not to allow the reprieve of eternal rest. Nadir believed he was acting with mercy; Erik saw it as further torment. Longer to live, longer to be alone without her.

Days passed unnoticed; weeks moved slower yet. It was a common belief that time healed pain; perhaps that was the customary situation, but Erik was sure he was the exception to that rule. No, time made it worse and all the more real in its bitterness. Time was its own instigator of torture, snuffing out hope with every deafening tick of the clock. Hope, …hope was in the grave with her.

"Erik," Nadir called as gently as he could as he broke him free of a reverie that had only included staring into flames this time. This bout had been tolerable; Nadir recalled worse instances and stirring Erik from his own mind as he stretched tensed fingertips to open air and whispered the name he would not allow either of them to speak in his right frame of coherency.

"Are you still here, daroga?" Erik snapped as his cold eyes averted to the man's intrusion. "I thought I insisted that you go home and end your nurse's watch for the night."

"You did that…_yesterday_, Erik; today you've yet to say a word to acknowledge that I am present." Studying him calmly and intently, he inquired, "Do you know how many nights it has happened that we've acted out this scene practically in its line by line exactness?"

"Oh, you know I threw that infernal clock away days ago when the ticking finally frayed my nerves."

"No, you threw the clock against a wall and shattered it to pieces, and that wasn't _days_ ago; it was _weeks_ ago. It's been four months, Erik, four months of variations to the same conversation, four months of my endeavors at forced feeding to keep you from starving yourself to emaciation, four months since Christine-"

"Don't you say her name!" It was immediate; he was out of the chair with Nadir hauled up by the shirtfront, flashing fire in a glare. "You know that I cannot tolerate the sound of it! I told you that if you wanted to be permitted in my home again, you must abide by my rules. You are _not_ to speak that name to me, or I may feel inclined to break a rule of my own and strangle the sound from your lips. It's been ages since I killed something, you know; it would hardly be an inconvenience or undesired at this point. It would certainly break the monotony and alleviate my requirement to be hospitable and continue to exist in the semblance of a man. Without you about, I could truly be a monster, and if nothing else, killing something might shift a bit of the guilt that is running rampant in my brain."

"You aren't going to kill me," the daroga stated without doubt. "Not for reminding you of her anyway. Now let go."

With a growl of displeasure, Erik complied to heave him aside and stalked in a fitful pacing before the hearth. "Go home, daroga. I'm not going to kill myself tonight if that is your concern. I haven't the strength for it."

"My concern exceeds suicide attempts or your lack thereof," Nadir solemnly bid. "Four months, and you've barely even touched your music. _Music_, Erik; that was always your escape and your gift. It has always saved you, more so than I ever have. You are giving it all up so flippantly it seems, and I don't understand how it isn't torturing you. Through every trial in your life, there's been the music; now you are denouncing it."

"_It_ had denounced _me_ and forsaken me at every turn!" Erik exclaimed back. "_Her_ voice in every melody, singing no matter the tune; music…, every bit of me is hers, the music as well. Without her, …there is no music."

"Erik-"

"No!" he roared back, abruptly approaching with fisted hands pronouncing their deadly potential in the air between. "I am quite through with your company, daroga. You betrayed me once, and now you betray me again with your misguided congeniality. My wish is to die, and you've denied me at every turn."

"Dying isn't the answer; you know that better than anyone."

"I'm _already_ dead! Why will you not see that? I am dead and in the grave with her, and there will be nothing left of Erik on this plane of existing. My heart has already been laid to rest." Each syllable lost anger and mutated it into the true extent of piercing anguish until he was drained and softly bidding, "I am nothing now; she took my life with her. The sooner you can accept that, the greater mercy you'll be doing for me. …Please just leave me be."

Nadir huffed a deep breath and somberly shook his head as he consented, "All right, I'll go for now. But I will be back to check on you tomorrow. We've been in this place before, Erik, and just like then, I am not going to give up on you, even if you've already given up on yourself. I know that you can be saved, and I believe the answer is in the music; it's _always_ been in the music for you. Just…try to play something, _anything_. It will do you good."

That was all he said, and with one final stare into the sheer endless depths of tortured eyes, Nadir hesitantly took his leave, scurrying soundlessly out of the underground house, secretly carrying as much guilt as Erik and acting his own form of penance in a constant pattern that would repeat on the morrow. It seemed the least he could do.

Play something…. Erik considered such an act a pointless waste of energy, but heaving a soul-laden sigh, he made a frazzled attempt, sitting before the untouched piano keys and striking random chords, nothing that could truly constitute a melody for fear of summoning spirits with legato lines. Mind and heart were disconnected and wandered aimlessly in and out of thoughts and feelings. But the longer he played, the more the music began to reflect his inner turmoil, and tears spilled unnoticed down his masked face with every single pitch until he could handle no more and broke off the created composition to the cadence of a choked sob. No more…, no more music…, no more Christine…, no more living….

Eventually exhausted with an overbearing mind, he abandoned the house altogether, roaming the catacombs like the ghost he had once been, considering such a title to now be an aspiration rather than a role of pretend. It was a new fantasy, the only one he was certain he could have: to be a ghost and truly haunt the opera house with Christine for all of eternity. Maybe that could be their future….

His wayward musings brought him up that familiar pathway, one he had not traveled in months. Up…, there was a world up here, a world he had never belonged to, only ever watching its pleasures from the shadows. Now he stalked its recesses again, taking to the rafters above their heads as it he could float in suspension.

Sounds welcomed him in a way people never could, that long unwanted music. Rehearsals were going on below him for a new production, and he lingered a moment and gazed upon the stage until the longing built to an ache in his heart. On that stage, he had first seen Christine, so long ago that it now felt like just another stitch in the seam of his existence. Christine, singing in the chorus; even with a dozen other girls, she'd shown to him like a beacon. He had learned what love truly was with his first glimpse of her beauty and desire to match. Her presence had brought to awareness emotions he had had no name for before her and no need to feel them. She had made their appearance essential and necessary. All of his memories coagulated into one particular image of her, that fated Gala night singing center-stage for him alone. He had known with her first pitch that she was his….

With a rush, he abruptly fled the theatre's view as every voice ringing forth sounded shrill and ugly compared to the one he carried in his inner ear. Down hallways, keeping above bustling heads and never suspected, until he found the one place he yearned to be like a tunnel back into time. Her dressing room…, and he loomed behind her mirror as he had all of those days before, gazing into a world he had only wanted to be a part of if it meant he could be with her. And he pondered a disparaging what if: what if the last year was only some convoluted nightmare, and she was about to enter this room, fleeing rehearsal to be with his voice as an angel hidden from view? What if should he consider hard enough, time could circle back around and set him in the past? What if….

And he was so consumed in the idea that he almost believed his wish had come into existence as the dressing room door burst open with a whining creak. Christine…. The disappointment struck him cold and harsh to find only the little Giry girl and the little Jammes, two of the ballet rats likely escaping Madame Giry's raging wrath and endless, repetitive rehearsals. Annoyed as he was, his interest rose to consider that this dressing room was currently unused, abandoned since it had been Christine's, and yet the girls were closing themselves within as if it was theirs.

"How long do you think we've got until your mother realizes we're gone?" Jammes asked Meg Giry as both girls warily eyed the closed door, half-expecting the ballet mistress to burst in at any given moment.

"Not nearly long enough," Meg quickly answered, shaking her golden head. "She's been on a rampage since we began rehearsals today, and I daresay that it will be worse once she notices that we've slipped away when we're supposed to have been rehearsing on our own."

"All right, then tell me right away. You've been teasing about your big secret all afternoon long."

Erik had deafened his ears to their chirpy, little voices, yearning for them to go away and leave him to his memories, and he was starting to consider calling upon one of his Opera Ghost antics to frighten them off when he was suddenly drawn to attention by the little Giry's very next utterance.

"It's about Christine."

That name, its letters spoken aloud and echoing through the empty room that had once been hers, and Erik was dragged heart-first into the present and their conversation. Christine….

"You're not supposed to be saying anything more about her," Jammes hastily insisted. "You're going to get into such trouble with your mother if you dare tell me another thing."

"Oh, what's the harm?" Meg frivolously decided. "The Opera Ghost is dead…or at least gone. No one's heard a thing from him in months, and it's only you and I here. Mama doesn't need to know that I've told you, and I _must_ tell you because I cannot keep it silent and within myself any longer! I shall burst if I don't tell you my news!" Giggling at her own melodrama, Meg suddenly withdrew a folded piece of paper from within the bodice of her rehearsal attire, and that alone convinced Jammes that this was quite the secret for Meg to take such drastic measures. "This is an invitation, requesting the presence of Mama and I for her wedding to the Vicomte de Chagny."

Erik felt the world spin beyond control with brutal realization and its driving punch to the gut. Her wedding to the Vicomte…. An invitation to a wedding…, the wedding of a _dead_ girl.

Laughing excitedly, Jammes snatched the paper and scanned the contents. "The wedding of the year to be sure!" she exclaimed, tracing her little fingers over the embossed printing. "I only wish I could be invited as well!"

"How?" Meg retorted, taking the invitation away again. "You know that everyone believes Christine is dead, and that's supposed to include you. You only know the truth because I can't keep a secret."

"Oh, and what's the difference if I know? It isn't as if I would tell anyone anyway! And who would even believe me if I did? All of the papers announced her suicide as if it was a national catastrophe! The death of the soprano diva! I guess with enough money, one can buy themselves all of the publicity they want, and the Vicomte obviously spared no expense! Aside from you and your mother, everyone else in the city thinks she is truly dead!"

"Oh dear God," Erik muttered beneath his breath, his hand fisting over his rapidly racing heartbeat. _Alive_…, _alive_ all of this time! Alive and moving onward with her life while his had ceased and halted in its tracks!

"And how, may I ask," Jammes went on, "do they expect to have a wedding if no one knows she's still alive?"

"Oh, the Vicomte is diligent. No one from Paris or the opera, but Mama and I. He sent a note attached to remind us to be extra careful." Meg shook her head with conviction. "And I think it's ridiculous! It's far too much when the Opera Ghost doesn't even care! He's gone, after all!"

Gone…, and he would have remained the invisible spectre, learning this transient news from the shadows if not for one detail that he suddenly realized he needed. The girls were distracted, continuing on about what Meg would wear to the wedding and how they would travel as Erik unhinged the mirror in a trick he had not had use for in months. The mirror, he had devised it exactly for the purpose of treading between worlds, and now was no exception. Neither of his victims noticed at first, not until the doorway was wide and gaping and he was striding through its portal.

A gasp, and it was the little Jammes who spotted him, her eyes widening to saucers with her rising panic.

"Jammes, what…?" Meg turned and matched her stare as she became the sole focus of the menacing Opera Ghost. White mask gleaming, she had a thought and memory of what lay beneath from that last night as Christine had exposed a distorted obscenity to a full opera house. A hideous monstrosity! A demon brought to life that had haunted her every nightmare since!

"Mademoiselle," Erik tightly greeted with as much gentility as he could muster for two petrified girls a wrong step away from screaming. "I have no intention of hurting you, Meg," he attempted, forcing anger at bay and away from his fierce stare. No, no, he couldn't take out his rage on the one person who had suddenly renewed his hope.

"I…I…I'm sorry," Meg stammered, unwanted tears in her large, green eyes. "I didn't…. I mean it wasn't…."

Without another word of assurance, Erik's hand darted to her and grabbed the invitation, his wrist flipping about and turning abnormally to make it deceptively seem to disappear to their terrified stares when truly he had it contained safely within the boundary of his sleeve. Finally having what he wanted, he gave the girls one final look with the threat only laid in the air and vanished back behind the mirror, shutting them out of his world.

Erik hesitated only a moment to watch the frantic stumbling and gaping he had left behind as they cried out to one another in high pitches over what they'd seen before suddenly remembering to flee the scene. A slammed door announced their departure, and only then did he stalk back into the catacombs with a new sense of purpose to every stride.

* * *

Nadir knew something was off-kilter the next afternoon as he arrived at the underground house before he ever even passed the threshold. It was permeating the catacomb air, a sense of unease and restlessness that put him on edge as he quietly entered the door and sought out Erik. He was not surprised that he did not see him right away in any of his usual places, not as bustling noises filtered about.

"Erik," he called with an unqualified urgency of dread.

"Daroga, I was so hoping that I would see you before I departed," Erik greeted with a feigned civility that made Nadir all the more anxious.

"Depart?" he asked as he followed the voice to the music room and spied his friend on his feet, packing a box with random scores. "Are you…traveling somewhere? …What is all of this?"

A trunk was in the center of the room, open and proclaiming its packed stature while boxes were scattered here and there, over-laden with music. One in particular caught his eye as on top sat a newly written piece, the ink still gleaming with its freshness and today's date scribbled on the top corner.

"Composing again?" Nadir inquired as he lifted the bound pages and scanned the notes, wishing that he bore a musician's mind to gain an idea of the piece from a glimpse alone. But alas, the notes and staves were a language all their own and completely foreign to his regard. "I did tell you that music would help."

"Oh, it wasn't the music; no, not at all." With only the occasional shrewd glance out of the corner of his eye, Erik continued unwavering in his task, tossing another score onto the pile. "You know, it's almost a wonder what good the _truth_ can do for a person. I daresay that it gave me an entirely new perspective on life."

"Truth?" he demanded back, shifting on his feet and attempting to appear nonchalant as he leafed through the manuscript and let black markings blur to a mess for unfocused eyes. "And…what truth do you mean, pray tell?"

Erik had halted his actions mid-motion and faced his once friend coldly as he stated, "You watched me mourn her; you saw it tear me apart to consider that she was gone and that it was my own fault. You saw the agony overwhelm every bit of me, and you never dared to utter a word against it. You singlehandedly devastated me, and for what? What did the Vicomte offer you? Money? Some sort of noble title? What did it take to buy your deception?"

Denying his words was futile, but Nadir formulated a protest anyway. "It wasn't anything so frivolous. He was just…concerned about Christine's well-being."

"Her well-being?"

"She suffered what happened as a trauma; she was so distraught that he was surprised that she was ever able to come out of it. You cannot condemn him for putting her welfare first. He knew you'd pursue her, and with your obstinacy on the issue, he was right."

"Damn you!" Erik roared, keeping a tight leash on a natural instinct to attack and strike back. He couldn't have said why; perhaps it was an engrained loyalty to their odd relationship, as near to a friendship as he'd ever known; perhaps it was because in some vein, he feared that Nadir and his good intentions made some sort of point, however aggravating it was. "Of course he was right! Of course I would pursue her! To the ends of the earth if I must! But you saw that letter; you heard its words. _She loves me_!"

"And she also abhorred what you did to her," Nadir argued back. "You must see that all of this was done to protect Christine."

"No, it was done to keep me from her by an arrogant Vicomte who knew he never had her heart."

As he posed once before on Erik's behalf, he now replied for the Vicomte instead, "But he does love her. They are happy, Erik, at peace finally. Do you truly mean to destroy that by going after her and past follies? Why not just let her go?"

"Let her go?" he declared as if such an idea was ridiculous. "That hardly seems fair! And allow the Vicomte to build their life together on a blatant lie and mistrust?"

"And you're a hypocrite to say so. Did you not do the very same? You would have done anything you must to manipulate her into loving you."

"Yes, and I was wrong!" Erik shouted back at him as he yanked his music out of the daroga's hands and put it back into its designated box. "I came to learn it a dozen times over. Every manner in which I've wronged her has haunted me for months…. It won't be the same this time."

"This time?" Nadir leaned across the full box with an urgent desperation. "Please, Erik, just leave them be. She's happy. Don't take that away from her again. You're going to end up dead trying."

"Death was a world without her in it," Erik insisted adamantly. "And don't presume to think that I will ever listen to you again. You chose your side, daroga. My loyalty to you ends with the plain fact that I am not killing you right now, and if you bear any lingering guilt for the pain you've been the catalyst to instigating, then I ask one favor, that you do not send word to the Vicomte of my approach. If you value my life as much as you've always claimed to, then I believe that you could do that service for me."

It was a reluctant nod, but it was enough to act as a commitment as he wearily bid, "I'm sorry, Erik."

His shaking hands were closing one of his boxes full of music, desperate for motion, and he refused to meet the daroga's eyes as he replied, "I doubt our paths will cross again, daroga, and I cannot say that I am regretful of that fact. I will merely call you fortunate to once again be saved from being my victim when for what you've done, you truly do deserve a merciless death. Perhaps your Allah will find a fitting punishment where I am lacking."

And that was all he would say, shrugging his shoulders idly and returning to his packing. He had far more important things to worry about than his former foreign ally; he had a future to begin planning.


	3. Chapter 3

It was nightfall when Erik left the city, traveling first in a shadowed train box and then an unlit carriage with yearning to guide every mile that put him closer to her. His heart was in turmoil, not sure what to feel, terrified to fully accept reality. Christine, alive, …and with far too many hours wasted fantasizing a death scene that had not happened, he still clung to fragments of its visions and shifted them in and out of the forefront of his mind. Only when he saw her breathing and feeling would he be able to forget their colors.

An invitation to a wedding was his guide, bringing him through a vast countryside laden with sprouts of life that danced in the night breeze and reminded him that in his four months of confinement, the world had spun onward and spring had arrived. Green and an array of shades for batches of flowers waving from the roadside, and he wondered how many similar seasons had come in and passed their length without his notice in his secluded years. It had never been a concern, never a thought granted unless it was over the hardship of impending cold or the nuisance of a rainfall. Now such details held meaning because he knew that they were important points to Christine, that _she_ would be acknowledging the new warmth of spring and be _living_ in this world and its trappings. Her views on such matters had somewhere along the way altered his until he had begun to appreciate the world that she loved so fiercely. She had some unconscious power to transform every detail of his existence if she so chose; he was determined that she would finally realize it.

Aboveground and interacting in a world he typically avoided added a cluster of new problems that seemed trite compared to the desperation to settle his heart. But he had taken care to send word ahead of his arrival to arrange for some sort of temporary residence. Underground lairs were impossible to come by in the country, of course, but a salary as an Opera Ghost could buy him whatever he liked. His contact was an acquaintance from days gone by when he had had a hand in constructing the opera house, truly his last legitimate communication with the world, unless being a makeshift ghost to the opera's cast counted. Knowing someone to make arrangements for him kept his masked face out of the eye of the general population and assuaged the awkwardness that would have otherwise been prevalent, and it acquired him a house not very far from the lands of the de Chagny estate. Convenient indeed, and when the previous owners who had been occupying its quarters until just this evening had been offered an exorbitant sum to leave, well more than what such a home could ever be worth, it reinforced Erik's knowledge that money could truly buy him anything he needed; objects, of course, because what he wanted, the only ending he could accept as the finale of these chained events, involved hearts and choices, and money held no sway in such unstable situations. He had to wonder if the Vicomte had taken note of that fact yet.

Erik barely observed a single facet of his new home, too distracted by a heavy head, but it was the hours before dawn, and that left him little choice but to impatiently wait. Sleep was unthinkable and hadn't been indulged since he'd begun this mission; unpacking a few of his boxes, mainly his music, had only served to make him yearn deeper. And so he willingly allowed himself to suffer, to be overcome with visions of Christine, memory intermixed with the avid fantasies of what was to come. It had been another sordid misfortune in a life over-filled with them that he had such a distinctive ability to recall details. It meant never being able to fully forget the hardships of humanity's cruelty and his own sins committed right back, but it also meant that his mind's eye could envision Christine practically to perfection at every urging. For months he had tried to stifle that desire, so sure it would only cause further agony, but now he called upon the image and dwelled on every sculpted detail, every smile she'd ever granted a man who was unaccustomed to receiving such tokens, every gentle look in her blue eyes, and incidentally, every tear he'd caused her, every pain he'd ignorantly incited. And all he could conclude was that it would be different this time.

The sun was up and beaming before Erik left his new residence, surprised by the natural brightness that peered within every window and encircled him as he dared to enter its domain. Too many years in the dark made it a blinding glow that he had to squint to endure as he instinctively ducked his masked face to conceal any glimpse even when it was only nature about to spy his presence. Was it any wonder that he preferred to shun such an illumination when it was so much easier to hide in the dark? It was the nearest to a challenge that he'd had in years to avoid the telltale beams and sneak about, to truly play a phantom who lurked about in the daylight. He had to take extra care, lingering away from the single road through the countryside as he walked the meager distance to the de Chagny lands, and it was from between tall, leafed trees that he first glimpsed the large mansion house.

From what information he'd been able to collect, this was the estate of the Vicomte's elderly aunt, a Comtesse in her own right. Like most of the aristocracy, this was only one of her homes, an escape in the country while her city house awaited her return during the bustle of society's busy season. Here, guests would come and go, would be entertained and indulged with plenty of extravagances, and certainly there would be space enough for a lavish wedding and the party to go along with it. A wedding of the Vicomte de Chagny at the Comtesse's country estate, and with its date only a week away, Erik noticed the chaos already underway as random workers rushed in and out of the open front door, carrying packages and random items, including pieces for a makeshift stage. Ah yes, this wedding would be equally a production to an opera show, especially if the bride was acting a role no different than upon a stage.

The melee proceeding to continue forced Erik to avoid far too many eyes as he crept into the large house with anticipation lightening his heart so much so that he had to hold it firmly at bay to keep his wits and skills as stealthy as ever. Again, details blurred, and he only half-comprehended the luxury surrounding him at every step. No treasure meant as much as the one he was searching for with every silent footfall. One glimpse, only that would appease his twisting heart, …but then again, how could one ever suffice?

Stalking the quieter corridors away from the madness of preparations, Erik could feel presences nearby, catching the softest, barely audible sounds of shifting motion, and he carefully approached, peering into empty room after empty room. Before he ever finished scanning the hallway, a familiar voice called out of the last doorway.

"Andrew!"

The Vicomte de Chagny, and Erik felt an immediate rise of murderous rage with one recollection of their last meeting and the fictitious tale of a bloody suicide that had haunted Erik's waking and sleeping mind for months. He would have attacked without thought if he had not had to shrink into corners and allow the passage of a hurrying butler, who did not even pause and wonder at the oddly shaped shadow as he rushed to the Vicomte's command.

"Yes, Monsieur Vicomte?"

"Where is my fiancée? I'm expecting the arrival of some of my cousins at any moment, and I want her to be present to meet them."

Erik's ears perked at that, and even as he swallowed bitterly against the term 'fiancée', he kept to being the silent observer in the hallway if it meant he'd be set on a path to Christine.

"I haven't seen her this morning," the butler Andrew nervously explained. "Perhaps she took a walk out to the gardens; you know how she enjoys the flowers. I could go and check for you."

"No, no, I'll do it myself momentarily," Raoul quickly insisted, "once I see that all of the preparations are being tended to outside. Have they begun to set up that platform for the party?"

"Not yet, monsieur. They are just about to start."

"Well, I shall check on their progress first. I can't afford to have any mistakes. No, Christine deserves perfection, and that is what I shall give her."

Erik did not pause to listen to more of the Vicomte's seeming endearments, sure he would forget himself and snap out without consideration to what he truly wanted instead. Out in the garden…. He had a peculiar thought over such a detail, but he did not yet indulge it as with the hinted curve of an uncommon smile upon his misshapen lips, he fled the house by the same path he'd taken to arrive, stealing back out without observance and searching now for flowers and nature instead. A garden…, on an estate this large, it was of no surprise to him that the garden was within a fair distance from the main house, buried between tall, protective trees. But it was not the flower colors and scents that drew him to its confines; no, it was a voice….

His peculiar thought became a reality in that one sound, so desperately remembered and clutched for months. An angel on earth, the _true_ angel between the two of them, and it was that very sound that had convinced him of it in his first hearing of its gloriousness. Larger now, fuller, brimming over with the confidence it had once lacked, it lured Erik to it with every brilliant note. Escaping to the garden, and he had guessed from the first moment that it wasn't for glimpses of flowers and velvet petals; it was to _sing_. A future Vicomtesse would not be permitted such a talent, but Christine wouldn't have been able to survive without it. She would have found a way to practice, to let the music pour forth once again even if it had to be done secretly, and if her darling fiancé knew her at all, he'd have realized that.

That voice! Erik shuddered down his spine as its beauty ensnared him. There were not many things in this world that he felt compelled to thank any sort of higher being for creating, but he would utter prayers to his eventual death for that voice. Most of the rest of the world knew attraction by appearances, perhaps personalities, perhaps an encouraging smile; for Erik, love had come with one solitary pitch from those cords. One song, and he had known that she was meant to be his. How could any doubt be formulated against such an imperative feeling? He felt it just as strongly now as he had then, a recognition and familiarity, an insistence that that voice would be the impetus of his greatest blessings and equally his greatest downfalls. Christine…, and how he had suffered to know its etherealness in echoes for too long!

As mesmerized as she had once been by her angel's voice, he unconsciously crept a soundless path after its timbre, half-afraid that it would vanish before he ever found it. Down a stone walkway with fresh, fragrant blooms on either side, extending their petals for any touch of his intruding presence, he was eager and hasty in every step. The vocalise she'd been singing higher and higher up the scale ended to silence, and he felt lost as if his constant had been snatched away and left him idly wandering. But no, no, God wouldn't be merciless enough to take her before Erik ever even glimpsed her silhouette, would He? And then…then….

A shiver raced his limbs. She was singing again, moving on to an aria, and her choice of song…. He went numb and petrified in his place for a long held breath. It was _his_, the very aria he'd written only for her in his ill-fated opera. Serenaded by his own music! Composed with heart and soul, with _love_, such love as he'd never felt before! It left him urgent for a look, and he rushed his last steps until the path before him ended at the foot of a white-wood gazebo, laden with flower vines up every rail and spindle.

And there she was…. And the world halted for him in its usual progression. A sob was captured and held between his lips, but the tears that came with its aftermath were vividly sparkling in his mismatched eyes until he had to blink them away with his frustration and let them fall if only to clear the blur from his vision and return her image. His Christine, his love….

Beneath the gabled roof of the gazebo, Christine spun and sang, moving in the exact motions she once had onstage, acting the scene far more realistically than she ever had before. She called her earlier portrayal innocent and naïve, the performance of a child without the experience in such matters to make any emotion as believable as it should have been. This was the aria of a woman who had tasted love and longed for potent desire once again; she had not fully understood that at the time. But now…now she sang with full heart, closing her eyes to savour every lyric on her tongue as she had once been taught to do. Her voice rang and resounded off of the ceiling, filling the small space with its vibrato and clear tone, and as she soared up and blossomed on a perfect high note, she felt a strange, undeniable sense of appreciation and pride, …one she only ever recalled in memory. It shook her to her core, but it did not jar her from the music. No, what did that was the softest sigh, almost unheard as it teased her ear with its missed emotions.

Erik…. She halted mid-aria, and slowly with an unqualified fear that she was solely encompassed in fantasy, she let her lids flutter open and stared out at the dark shape just beyond the gazebo's entrance that watched her back with every tear to proclaim his validity. Frozen in her place, she felt emotion, pure, raw, so long unfelt, swell and overwhelm her with the interlacing of a fear that she would not avoid. No, fear was as important as every other sensation, fear for the man who had changed her life so completely and irrevocably and had subsequently shattered its every facet in his murderous hands. Fear and anger on its heels, and such things left her only to stare resentfully at that dark silhouette with its gleaming mask, and even when the presence of the man could have inspired variations and a sense of longing, the mask reminded her of coldness and damage, of an Opera Ghost and a persona that surpassed mortal man, one she hated as vehemently as she could have ever loved the man attached to its epitaph.

It was almost an impossibility to move and create motion, and he stumbled in uncharacteristically abrupt steps up into the gazebo's protection, holding her apprehensive blue eyes all the while. His mind taunted him with every detail of her life, of breaths passing her parted lips in an erratic pattern, of the quivering of her body, of the gentle stirring of loose dark curls with the wind that gusted through the open structure and claimed her as existing, as _real_. Words were incomprehensible and buried beneath too much emotion, and as he halted before her, running feverish eyes over every feature of her porcelain face, he dared to extend a hand that shook along every finger and joint, needing a touch with a necessity that frightened him.

Christine did not move, only watched the approach of that familiar hand, pondering that it had rarely ever touched her, rarely a caress, rarely a contact. Usually, he would deny such impulses and recoil before skin ever met, always terrified to tarnish her, but this time, his intention was clear. And this time it was _she_ who recoiled, shrinking back before he ever found her cheek with wide and horrified eyes that accused him in their stare.

What features that could be seen with the mask to conceal the brunt creased with a rush of pain, and instinct bid her to beg forgiveness, to catch that yet motionless and offered hand in hers and guide it to her skin, to kiss its every knuckle and its palm. But she did not dare. She only shook a solemn no against her internal pulling and kept beyond his grasp.

"Christine," Erik whispered sadly, unable to quit gazing at her and marveling over her reality even as she rejected him yet again. Perhaps that would always the result to his every attempt, and yet his devotion and awe were undimmed in their constancy.

Tears were filling her blue eyes, every feature crumbling with their power as her gaze shifted from his hand to his eyes and back again. And with fingers that tingled with their eagerness, she was about to succumb, to seize that hand and take it in her grasp, to make its weakness into strength when their moment was purloined and lost.

"Christine! Are you out here?"

Raoul! He had yet to appear, yet to spy the scene happening in the gazebo, and without a word of explanation, Erik suddenly acted, letting an uncertain hand become determined on its own as he grabbed at hers, stealing it from her side and drawing her with him out into the gardens without a single struggle. She was willing, and he savoured that mediocre victory.

Reason shouted at her to demand to know where he was taking her, but like the gullible child she had once been, she permitted his intent tugs, staggering after him without the grace he unconsciously carried in his every footstep. No, she was practically tripping her way behind, hoping her inability to be as soundless as the notorious Opera Ghost wouldn't alert Raoul to their presence. Raoul, the fiancé she should have been running toward and shouting to save her. But Raoul became an unconsidered thought with the further they went from the gardens, slipping seamlessly into the surrounding woods and never pursued.

Erik took no chances, bringing her to the far edge of the de Chagny lands where the ground was uneven and hills became irregular cliffs. At the base of one stone drop was a small alcove carved into the steep wall, and he drew her into its private shadows with only the residual evidence of sunglow outside to grant any sort of light.

All at once, he released her hand as if he had committed a vile transgression, curling his arms into his body as he faced her and once again studied her every nuance, seeking every alteration incited by four months of time's passage. Dear God, she was perfect! And he wanted her just as much. It hardly seemed ridiculous to consider that such desire could lead to the extreme measures he had once been driven to in his desperation. No, her exquisiteness was his justification.

"Why do you look at me that way?" she dared to ask in a soft breath, shifting uncomfortably beneath the power of those eyes.

"You were _dead_," he gasped back, unable to dull the intensity. "I thought I'd never see you again on this plane of life, …never touch you." This time hesitation was an afterthought to an already reaching hand, and he shook violently to graze a bold caress along her cheek, watching her close her eyes not to see the sin as it was acted out.

"Stop," she commanded yet stayed rigid in her place.

"No, I can't," he insisted, cupping her face with fingertips that restlessly roamed soft features, yearning only to know every one. "I can't possibly, not now that I've touched you…and learned that you're real. Christine, …you were dead," he repeated the blasphemy, swallowing against more tears as they choked sound to a whisper.

Blue eyes fluttered open and watched him steadily, feeling the undeniable weight of his hand against her skin and its every unuttered connotation. "What do you mean? …Dead? I don't understand."

That was no surprise, but the assurance was its own relief. His fingers were outlining her lips and being deliciously burned by her living heat as he told her, "Your ever-devoted fiancé convinced me as well as the majority of Paris that you had taken your own life. And you didn't know a single detail of it, did you? He brought you here likely under the pretext of peace and a recovery away from the eyes of society. He never told you that he arranged a fake death in your absence."

Even as her mind spun with his words, she flatly declared in an automatic defense, "He did it for my protection, of course. Raoul only wants to keep me safe."

"And to secure his claim upon you," Erik added resolutely. "He knew that if I didn't believe such a lie, I would have come after you."

"Come after me…?" Jolted back to reality, she suddenly jerked back and out of his reach, creating a necessary distance and forcing herself to see the mask. Yes, that mask was there, and it was as unavoidable as it always had been. "Why are you here, Erik? Our goodbyes are over and past; I am marrying Raoul, in this week in fact. If you are here to ruin that and play the phantom Opera Ghost all over again with murder and ultimatums as your game, then I tell you now that I want no part of it. I will have Raoul stop you any way I must. I don't want you here."

"And am I to believe that after you only just willingly denied your fiancé and came with me? After you allowed my accursed touch?" Cruelty was a strong point; it laced his beautiful voice and insisted hostility over the depth of his true pain. How often had he chosen to react with anger and malevolence over the breaking of a fragile heart? He fought to crumble the wall he himself was building, and softening the firm lines of his expression, he pushed honestly, "I mourned you, Christine. I mourned you so desperately that I died with you. I begged to be haunted by your ghost, _anything_ to have you with me still, but ghosts disappear to the touch. I learned that bitter lesson over and over again. But…I was never allowed to touch you alive; why would death be any different? I should have endured eternity without a touch; I am undeserving. But if I beg you, if I offer any aspect of my worthless life for it, may I touch you again? May I convince myself that you are not the body in the grave that I had envisioned at every nightmare? One touch, Christine…."

His hand was extending to her again, and though she never spoke a consent, her silence was acquiescence enough as she closed her eyes as she had before, terrified of their betrayal. Without a look, she simply waited until she felt the first tentative brushing of cold fingers. No, she should not recognize his touch with so little to recall in memory's chasm, and yet she still had no doubt that it was Erik's, that even without comparison, she would know it as his. His other hand was finding her skin as well, both holding her face between their curves and framing it delicately as if creating its shape. She never needed to look to know he was admiring her again and gazing at her with that wonder she'd been subject to since his appearance. And if he had truly believed her to be dead, then she understood why. …Dead…, he'd mourned her as if she'd been dead and buried. The realization made tears collect in the corners of her eyes and escape closed lids to deceive her with their presence as they trickled a path and struck his hands on their descent.

"But why do you cry?" he demanded in a whisper, desperate to hide his identical reaction. "I am doing nothing to hurt you."

"But you are!" The admission poured forth and stung the air between them. "You _always_ hurt me!"

"Do I? It is never my intent," he vowed in breaths, yet unable to force a cracking voice as his thumbs swiped the tears from her cheeks. "It doesn't have to be so, Christine. I can be something more for you; I can show you that we don't need to spend forever hurting each other, that we can be happy together."

"You intended to come after me," she could not stop herself from accusing. "As always, you would have taken me away because it was what _you_ wanted."

"And _you_ wouldn't have wished such a thing?" He was half-afraid of her answer, half-afraid that the way she was leaning her face into his touch was unconscious and instinctual when tears and closed eyes could not tell him anything different. "You wouldn't have wished that I would come for you? Did you truly want me to let you go, Christine? In all of these months, have you never longed for my presence?" No reply would come as she bit her lip as if to clutch it within and away from him, and running his fingers gently along her brow, he decided it for her, "You have. …I came upon you singing _my_ music in the way I always wanted you to; an open window to your soul, I once told you. That was what I expected, and you always kept up walls and divisions between your heart and…and the music. But not today. Today you were all I ever wanted you to be."

"Yes, the music," she suddenly insisted, forcing herself to open eyes and not be swayed by those mismatched ones from some long-forgotten dream. "It was the music. I've longed for the music."

"One more detail the Vicomte won't allow in your life," he concluded, shaking his head with his disgust. "The wife of a Vicomte cannot sing opera on the stage. Is that what he's told you? That you must give up everything you love for him and the sacrifices he's made for you?"

It was a conversation she was unwilling to divulge, and furrowing her brow with her frown, she suddenly replied, "One touch; you said one touch. Now let go of me."

Every instinct within him begged not to listen, but with overt reluctance, he curled aching hands closed and away, missing the soft smoothness of her flesh in the first severing of contact. Unable to quell the sharpness of the comment, he pushed, "And will you now insist that you love the Vicomte and that I should go and leave you be to marry him?"

"If I did, it wouldn't matter," she retorted. "You'll hear what you want to hear and never accept anything else."

Eyes bearing into hers, he stated with conviction, "You _don't_ love him."

"But I don't love _you_ either," she replied and wasn't surprised when his expression never changed. "You don't believe me."

"No, I don't." His hand dove into a pocket and withdrew a torn scrap of paper, tattered almost beyond recognition from so many empty hours spent with its words being clung to beneath desperate fingers that needed to hold to something. "I have proof to convince me otherwise."

Christine's eyes slowly widened as realization came to the surface, breaking into rationale and reminding her of the day she had written every word and the haze she'd been half-overcome with as she had acted. "Where did you get that?"

"It doesn't matter. Your words, love, in your hand. Will you call yourself a liar then?" With the tip of one finger, he underlined the evidence he was after. 'I loved you' in elegant scrawl.

"And were you told the state I was in when I wrote that?" she demanded back, grasping her private thoughts free of his exposing hold. "I wasn't myself after what you did to me."

But Erik shook his head, unconvinced. "Your trauma was not the result of the events of that night and dearest Raoul's near demise; it was the result of a broken heart, one I myself foolishly caused when I sent you away."

"You didn't want me!" she practically shouted. "And it's far too late to change your mind now! You're right, Erik; you broke my heart. But now it's healed and well, and it is the Vicomte's. So leave me be. I am no longer yours."

Without a thought, his hands darted out and caught her shoulders, and he hugged her to himself, refusing the whimper of protest she gave. "You are _always_ mine," he fervently breathed, keeping her close with desperate arms. To feel her! To hold her! To know the soft gasp she gave meant breath and life! He had believed he'd never have this again! "Oh, Christine," he sighed as he pressed his masked face to the silk at the crown of her head.

For one instant, she allowed it; she even shuddered her consummation and almost, _very nearly_ held him back. But in her next coherent realization, she struggled in a grasp that had little choice but to yield, and she abruptly broke free, shrinking away to create distance.

"No, don't," she insisted, wrapping her arms futilely about her own waist in an empty embrace. "I can't…. Please, Erik, just go. _Please_…leave me alone."

She wished that her expression did not speak as many unuttered declamations as it did, revealing a longing she didn't want to feel. How much of a complication it brought! And she knew that he would glimpse it and it would encourage what should have remained dead. But with a final adamant shake of her head, she turned and ran, abandoning him in that alcove of rock and rushing for the house as if the devil pursued her every movement. But her devil stayed away and only watched her go with hurt eyes, still able to feel her there and in his arms as only a ghost once again remained.


	4. Chapter 4

Christine was staring up at the canopy of her bed with an empty gaze that did not reveal the inner chaos of her mind. White chiffon, and yet to unfocused eyes, it blended into a sheet of pure color and shifted like a kaleidoscope's ever-changing pattern until it reminded her of a mask, white and stark, hiding a face in its recesses, protecting its secrets and with it, a heart so passionate and yet always terrified to truly _feel_. Months of contemplating it were nothing to prepare her for being in its presence again, for being the sole victim of those mismatched eyes and their power and a love so brilliant that it overwhelmed her. To be loved in such a way, it was as confining and restricting as it was wondrous. Love, but a love that was free to be felt on his side, free to grow and swell to extraordinary heights while her own return had always been chained in fear and the frivolity of youth. And then one time she had let it bloom and match his, escaping its barriers to its fullness of heart and soul. One moment of purely loving before the chains had been reattached, this time by _him_. He had made the choice for her when it was supposed to have been hers and had pushed her away, restricting a love that he was afraid to bear and believe it was genuine.

Oh, Erik…. How many long, horrible hours had she spent suffering for his rejection? How broken had it left her to reveal the truths of her heart and feel him pull away, to find bravery for once in a weak life only to have it squandered and extinguished from existence by the very man who craved it most? It had been a trauma; they had called it a trauma. Doctors parading in and out of the Vicomte's home, searching for physical ailments when she had purposely decided not to speak, when she had chosen to live in regret and memory instead. They hadn't realized that she'd heard their every ignorant word. A trauma, stealing basic abilities of speech and coherency with its weight. They could have never guessed that she had acted the entire episode to be left alone with her thoughts, to sort out their facets and seek some sort of conclusion. No one would have believed that, not when she was supposed to have been distressed for kissing a disfigured madman and practically signing her life over to him. She was supposed to carry the scar of it still in her soul, and that was why Raoul continued to treat her with an intricate care, convinced she'd shatter if he pushed too hard. He had made a trip to his aunt's country estate seem like a token of affection, a gesture of his love; she now knew better, and the crumpled scrap of paper in her hand was her proof.

Christine was jostled back to a place where white chiffon was only chiffon by the gentle knock at her bedroom door, and shoving the scrap of a letter into a pocket of her gown, she rushed on nervous knees to answer, knowing who it would be in spite of the unnecessary skip of her beating heart.

"Christine," Raoul called as soon as he glimpsed her, running frantic eyes over her features and looking for causes of alarm. "Andrew told me that you were ill. I would have been up here to check on you sooner, but my cousins arrived and I had no choice but to be hospitable. You missed supper, darling. Are you all right?"

Leaning upon the open door for stability, she distantly replied, "Of course. I just…had a headache and wanted to lay down for awhile."

"Are you well enough to come down for dessert?" Raoul urged with that charming smile she read so well. He was looking to appease her and receive a smile in return, but she would not concede as she usually did and kept a furrowed brow. "If not, I can make your excuses. Whatever you wish. I can't have you taking ill with the wedding so close, not when I'm so certain that it will be just the thing to finally settle every worry you still have."

She had to wonder if he genuinely believed that her frequent bouts of melancholy and supposed headaches were due to a continued fear of losing him or if that was just what he told himself to make it acceptable. Either way, a wedding would make things appear permanent and an inarguable ending for them. A wedding would make her _his_.

Shaking her head somberly, she replied, "I think it would be best if I continued to lay down. As you said, the wedding is too close for me to take the chance of becoming ill." Her mind persisted to say that he should have been disappointed or at least a bit irritated with her neglected sense of etiquette and congeniality to their guests, but it was not really a surprise that he chose to please her first and foremost.

"Of course," Raoul gushed, setting his palms gently atop her shoulders. "And ring Andrew for anything you wish. He can bring you supper and dessert or anything your heart desires."

Anything her heart desired…. Those words bit at her with their uselessness, and the leftover wound was so undeniable that it built her courage and urged her to broach a cold subject. Adopting her actress' façade, she made an attempt for the truth. "I had a telegram from Meg today, and…she said something unsettling."

"Shall I guess?" Raoul teased, smile unfaltering. "Does she wish to stay with us when she arrives for the wedding? I'm sure that hotels are inconsiderable when my aunt's mansion house is a far cry above. Has she asked for her own room and one for her mother, or did she at least offer to share?"

"No, no, not that," Christine emotionlessly replied, refusing to allow Raoul to gauge her reaction as she accused him in a quickly made-up lie. "Meg said that she wasn't able to invite any of the other ballerinas as I asked her to because they don't know that I am not 'dead'. Dead, Raoul? What did she mean?"

The Vicomte's countenance cracked, and a flustered agitation left him shifting from side to side on his feet. "You…well, you weren't supposed to know, Christine. I thought I made it quite clear to Meg that it would upset you to be told. It…it isn't as horrendous as it seems."

Careful yet not to portray anger or blame, she flatly demanded, "Did you…do this, Raoul? …Does all of Paris believe that I am dead?"

He was huffing his discontent and obviously seeking a suitable explanation for her sake, but all he could mutter was, "I did it for you; it was not some sort of deceitful crime as I'm sure it must seem. Your name was being spoken in conjunction with that monster's, as if the horror at the opera house was somehow your fault as well. I thought only to take you out of their vindictive gossip and give you some sort of new life detached from that one. It can hardly matter if Christine Daaé is considered to be dead; you are about to be the Vicomtesse de Chagny. Such a title suits you and puts you on a pedestal so high above those hellions and their conniving tongues."

"But you convinced everyone that I took my own life," she insisted with a fraction of her true perturbation filtering through. "How could you do that? And that is why you've argued every time I've proposed that we return to the city. I would be a walking ghost!"

"Don't be angry with me. It was a harmless lie meant to give us both some sort of peace. That other life would have always chased behind us if I had done nothing." Raoul knew she was unconvinced, and purposely softening his expression back to a grin, he ran his hands gently down her arms to capture both of hers and clutch them between their bodies. "You suffered so much, Christine, because of that terrible ordeal; you didn't deserve to carry its stigma and fallout for the rest of your life, not when it was of no fault of your own. I wanted to free you from that bastard's mark."

Though she permitted his touch, she did not grant forgiveness so easily as she dared to pose, "And…then _he_ believes I am dead as well." There it was, the harshest point of accusation, and she critically studied his response, looking for the reason for anger.

"Maybe…. Would it be such a horrible thing if he did? If nothing else, it would be a guarantee that he'd leave us to live our life."

It was as telling as if he'd admitted it, but all she said amidst her disappointment was, "And then he'd never come after me again."

"Exactly!" Raoul exclaimed, nodding fervently as she struck his impetus. "He won't come after you! So you see, my reasoning was valid and for your protection. You're going to be safe, Christine, no more fears. I wanted to give that to you."

Never a smile, never a concession, she merely muttered, "I have a headache, Raoul. I would appreciate it if you told your guests as much and leave me to lay down."

"Of course!" he gushed. His overdone smile was still begging for acceptance, but he had no choice but to give up as she pulled her hands free and reached for the door. "Christine," he made one final plea, "I love you."

But she was silent and solemn, closing him out of her room and with him, his lies. Protect her? No, protect himself. And she had the proof in her pocket and withdrew it once again with shaking fingers. Raoul had clearly stolen her private musings and used them to his advantage, which also meant that he knew each and every one. And what about the rest of this letter, torn with an uneven edge from the bottom of the page? It had obviously been discarded, but what had it said? She had a fleeting memory, and in imprecise terms remembered that it had been a pleading, a desperate begging to Erik to come for her and take her away, a recanting of every harsh word and a vow that she loved him in spite of it, that if he would only allow her to make her choice, she would choose him again and again. …All of those internal musings seen by her fiancé, and _that_ was why he had enacted a plan to feign her death. It would have been the only way to keep her and the most potent manner in which to tear Erik apart for her own feelings.

Her heart urged her to hate Raoul, to pity what Erik had endured and love him all the more, but her eyes passed over her own scribbled words once again, the harsh parts of a broken heart's lament. Today had proven no different than four months before with Erik laying claim as if she was his to do with as he pleased and love only in the way he wanted. He wanted her, but only inasmuch as he could control her, and not even her supposed death had changed that. Love to him meant _his_ love, and he had a terror of believing in hers that she wasn't sure she could stop. How could she possibly love a man who was determined to instruct her in _how_ to do it and why? Who could not let her love as she did because he was so certain that it was fabricated? Doubt would always be his folly, and in his need to keep control, he would devastate her a second time. …And worst of all was the blatant truth that she would foolishly let him.

* * *

"…And if you can believe it, she proceeded to throw herself at him like some sort of cheap hussy as if there wasn't a ball going on with a hundred people all around them. Shameless!"

Christine fought to keep her attention on the conversation to which she was supposedly an integral participant. Raoul's aunt was going on about the behavior of another socialite in hurried excitement to the collected group of a dozen ladies having tea in the parlor of her country mansion. This was not the first tedious afternoon gathering Christine had been forced to join since their arrival, and as was typically the case, the gossip of those not in attendance far outweighed any other more important topics of discussion. In the past few months, Christine had learned more scandalous details of strangers' lives than she ever had in the backstage of an opera house full of backstabbing performers and dancers with loose morals.

"Oh, Christine," Raoul's aunt Constance suddenly called over the crowd's muttered agreement with her previous story. "Here I am manipulating the conversation when this party is supposed to be about _you_."

Such a reminder only made Christine shrink back in her seat, wishing to disappear from all of the eyes shifting to her. This was nothing like being the focus onstage, of singing and performing to an audience of hundreds. This was a nightmare compared to that as she kept her posture poised and perfect, terrified to even shift one finger the wrong way. This audience was waiting for her to fail, to make one error in speech or attitude so that she could be the next victim of their gossiping tongues.

"Five days until you wed the dashing Vicomte de Chagny," one of the older ladies gushed with her seemingly polite smile. "You must be the envy of every unmarried girl in the country!"

"Wherever did the two of you meet?" another asked excitedly, and Christine felt her nerves teeter on their edge, knowing that she would have to be mindful of every word. Not even Raoul's dear aunt knew the truth.

"In Paris," Christine softly offered, hoping no one would take notice how tightly her fingers were curved and flexed into her palms. "But we had played together as children years ago. It was simply fortune that returned us to each other."

Aunt Constance shook her head with an intruding laugh. "My ignorant brother hired nanny after nanny to raise his boys, and oftentimes I would visit and find them off amongst paupers and lay people on the city streets! Thankfully, Raoul did not let his heart go to one of those dirty, peasant girls and saved it for you, darling Christine!"

Paupers and lay people, and Christine never let on that she had actually fit into those categories at the time. No, as far as Aunt Constance and all of proper society knew, she came from a family as well off as theirs, if not titled to prove it. Dear God, how ashamed her father would have been if he'd have ever known that his daughter was practically denying her own family name!

The lady beside Christine caught her arm with her wrinkled hand and bid, "I overheard you mention to one of the other ladies at our last gathering that you spent your time in Paris training in the arts. Perhaps you could share a song at our next soiree. The ladies often entertain with their talents, you know. My youngest daughter sang and played the piano so lovely at our last one; it would be refreshing to add another voice to our usual performances."

Ah yes, because singing to the upper class was a hobby, never a profession. Young girls, daughters of the elite, claiming their voices to be as beautiful as they themselves were, and deciding that warbling a few notes on pitch made them prima donnas in their own right. Well, prima donnas without a stage, of course, unless one counted the parlor and impromptu renditions of popular songs. It was considered a point of good breeding to be educated and that included lessons in music, but only as a viable incentive in catching a husband. And Christine had already been told quite clearly by Raoul's continued conditioning that the instant she was revealed as an opera singer, even if she chose never to set foot on the stage again, she would be cast out of society's bubble and vindictively slandered for the rest of her years. Such a promising future indeed!

"No, I couldn't," Christine gently insisted to the lady's open offer, "I don't sing anymore. I shall leave the performing to your daughter and her friends. I prefer simply to watch." The greatest point of annoyance to her was the plain fact that they anticipated that she would be mediocre at best, and if she dared sing full voice with all of her training and talent behind her, she would be condemning herself right in front of them. Perhaps that was what they wanted; with the vast majority of those she'd met exuding pettiness and jealousy, it would seem plausible to conclude.

"Come now, Christine," Aunt Constance pushed. "You know, a lady needs something to keep herself inspired until the children start to arrive. You could learn new parlor songs for our soirees."

"Yes," the lady beside her agreed, "take advantage of such pleasantries now before the children come, unless, of course, you intend to keep a nanny. I tried to refrain from nannies with my first child, but the instant I realized I had no time of my own and could not even respond to telegrams or choose dress samples for an upcoming ball without my son squawking his unhappiness every two minutes, I hired one right away and intelligently, kept the same one for the duration of my birthing years. She practically became part of the family! Do you think you'll hire a nanny, Christine, once you and Raoul are expecting?"

Eyes widening, Christine was desperately seeking some sort of unoffending answer when Aunt Constance interrupted before she could, "Oh, Agatha, don't push her so quickly. We haven't even had a wedding, and you're already talking about children!"

"Well, …one never knows," Agatha replied with a secretive smile. "These days it seems quite a few babies are arriving nearly at the instant the wedding is over." Her eyes scanned Christine's small figure intently, and Christine nervously scooted back further into the cushions of her chair, unconsciously slouching away from observance.

"Oh, Agatha, don't be absurd!" another lady insisted with her own giggle. "Raoul is a gentleman! …But even if there was a baby on the way, once they were married, such a detail as the date of conception could be overlooked if it is the child of a Vicomte."

"Yes," another agreed. "As long as you were married, it wouldn't be any sort of disgrace, not for a Vicomte."

It was too much, too many prying eyes scrutinizing her and trying to catch a glimpse of what wasn't even there, too many insinuations to nip at her skin with their sharpness. Shaking with her nerves, Christine suddenly leapt to her feet and hastily declared, "Will you please excuse me?" And without further explanation, she darted from the room to a few snickers of decided guilt chasing behind her.

She did not stop running until she arrived in her bedroom, slamming the door behind herself and leaning back against its sturdy construction as if it would ground her. This was like a nightmare she could not find her way out of, and worse yet, this was the rest of her life!

"What would be the more condemning offense in this society, I wonder?" a voice called from her open terrace, and her eyes shot to its curtains in time to see the dark silhouette appear against their material. "Wedding a Vicomte yet already carrying his child or being an opera singer? It truly is a perplexing riddle, isn't it?"

The sheer power of his aura made her waver on her feet and depend on that unaltered door in the moment he shoved the curtain aside and strode into her bedroom. It astounded her that any human being could have such an effect. "Spying on me yet again?" she posed, desperate to seem firm. "Seeking another window into my life? I asked you to leave me be."

"And you knew I wouldn't," Erik insisted with conviction as he strolled the corners of the room and appeared to be inspecting the details of his surroundings even if in all actuality, his senses were too consumed with being in tune with her to care about much else. "I can't…. But it certainly is interesting to eavesdrop and watch you interact in that superficial world. They were practically baiting you to fall."

"Yes, I realize that," Christine snapped back. "I've been the unwilling recipient of quite a few guile and artificial grins in the past months. Most of them already hate me for no other reason than the fact that I'm marrying Raoul."

He made a face of his distaste at the simple statement, yet dared to push, "And what would they say to know you are an opera singer? Stage performers are frowned upon and abhorred as whores and conniving buffoons in that crowd, those to be pitied and shunned. I quite understand that reproach."

"They need never know about it," she answered, eyeing him as he randomly toyed with the jewelry box upon her vanity and surveyed its contents with another scowl of his annoyance. Gifts…, all from the Vicomte, and Raoul never seemed to realize that she had yet to wear a single one.

"So you will deny what you truly are for dearest Raoul and his fake pretense to society," Erik stated matter of factly. "You will denounce everything I taught you and worked so adamantly to see you achieve, and you will kill that integral part of yourself to be accepted into their volatile circle. …Given the option, I'd rather that they hated you because you were with child and cast you out already."

"I am _not_ with child," Christine corrected, and as his eyes perused her in the same rude manner that a room full of ladies had, she did not shy away, willing him to see her honesty.

Erik ached to believe her so fervently that it constricted his heart's beat beneath tension's web. Merely to overhear those women suggest such a thing and consider its ramifications had left him a step away from bursting into their party and demanding an answer, audience unperceived in his desperation to know. _His_ Christine, and if she was carrying that damn Vicomte's child, he was sure the news would kill him. But…stare all he liked, the truth remained a mystery when physical proof wasn't present, so in determined strides, he faced her and leaned close enough that she could not flee, not between his shape and an unyielding door.

"Has he…?" The words for such an act would not come, choked back on his tongue with a mixture of shame and reluctance.

Blushing ever so slightly with her chagrin, she anxiously bit her lip as she shook her head in an inarguable denial.

"But…he's kissed you," Erik abruptly retorted, unable to tear his own eyes from the unnatural arch of a bit lip, recalling with utter torture the one time he'd known its caress. "He…he's touched you."

The pain in his mismatched stare made her tremble down every limb with its potency, and unable to endure the guilt that came with it, she quickly revealed in a quivering voice, "Nothing more than chaste kisses. I…I couldn't let him touch me…not yet. It still felt too soon after…everything." A flimsy explanation at best when she had shunned Raoul's every advance, using her supposed trauma as reason enough to deter him. How could she have ever told Raoul that she didn't want him to touch her because his every attempt ignited only disappointment within her?

Shaking his head slowly, Erik wasn't calmed and muttered, "But he's held you, comforted you as you suffered memories and night terrors of a monster's attempted touches. He has stroked your cheeks and clasped your hands, brushed his fingers through your hair, all so much more than I've ever been allowed. I'm sure you've permitted him without a second thought while I…I had to endure your suspicion with every accidental contact."

She could not protest a blatant reality, recalling how often she had recoiled from Erik's hands, making murder and violence their only implication even when that had been the furthest truth possible. No, he had always sought to portray tenderness, and she had always forced herself not to look.

The blame fringing hurt eyes stung her so harshly that she suddenly acted without choice or contemplation, catching each of his hands with hers and thrilling immediately with the graze of skin to skin. He never questioned her intentions; he only accepted every touch as if they were all he'd have. Fingers wove with fingers, palms to palms, and she never gave herself the scolding that sense wanted her to, not when his masked face was so close, his eyes so over-laden with a longing that was reflected in an empty ache in her stomach.

"Christine," Erik slowly called the present to attention, "I never wanted my touch to be a punishment for you, not when I've forever been denied such pleasures. But you always recoiled from me as if I would taint you with the blackness of my soul."

She could not deny what was true, and how foolish she now felt to realize it! "I was an ignorant child. Such things are unimportant now."

"Are they?" he doubtfully questioned, lifting their joined hands. "And yet you tremble. This frightens you when we've barely shared a touch."

"It frightens me because it is a transgression," she reproved even though she never broke free and even clasped tighter, more unbreakable yet.

"And this? Is this a transgression?" As he asked, he drew her nearer by their grasping hands until they were almost in a haphazard embrace, bodies so close that he felt burned and branded to his core. "Is it, Christine? Can it be a transgression if it is wanted?"

"It must be," she softly bid, overwhelmed to the extent that she bent her head near and set her forehead to his shoulder, sucking in a breath that was too heavy with his scent to keep her from intoxication. "It must be because I can't rationalize through it."

"But it's always been this way," Erik protested and knew she'd hear the hoarseness creeping into his voice. "And it terrified you so much that you ran from me. You were so desperate to convince me that it didn't exist because if it did, then it was more of a sin to deny it." He could not help from resting his unmasked cheek against the crown of her head, nuzzling dark silk with his features and delighting in their unhindered tickle. "Will you deny it now? Will you force me away again and pretend that this isn't real?"

"Even if it is…, I can't have it." Swallowing a resolute breath, she drew away and left him no choice but to lift his head and meet her eye.

"Why, Christine?" he suddenly demanded. "Is it because this heart that adores you is so scarred with its sins and horrors? Is that why you push it away and pretend that you don't see its desires?"

Her hands were her own again, free and fisted at her sides with their loss, and she felt the misery creasing her brow to reply, "Mine bears its own scars, and it is _your_ doing. And shall I allow the wounds to tear open again when it is _my_ love that has never been enough for _you_. You gave it away; you handed me over to the Vicomte as if you had the right, and now you seek to inspire guilt for the relationship you condoned. _He_ is allowed to touch me; he is my fiancé, and you turn even that into an atrocity. You are not allowed to feel envious of what you didn't want."

"Didn't want?" he spat skeptically. "_Always_ wanted. It was a mistake; I never should have let you go-"

"But you did! Because you wanted more than I could ever give. You don't want just to be loved, Erik; you want to be idolized and revered. You want me to still see the angel you never were and not the man you are."

"Yes," he agreed, forcing his hands not to grab her again, "but could you have ever loved the man, Christine? You're so sure that your love wasn't enough for me, but I was always so certain that _I myself_ wasn't enough for you. I'm not an angel; I've _never been_ an angel, but you loved the angel and the man was a sorry replacement."

"And yet it was the man I chose," she insisted without sway. "Do you not recall it, Erik? There was no angel present that night; there was only _you_. And I gave him my life and love in one kiss and then was thrown away as if it meant nothing." Her hurt was pouring through, hurt she wanted to seem inconsequential. Tossed away…with her love seeming irrelevant, a heart that was called meaningless in the scheme of things.

"Christine-"

"No," she snapped, never acknowledging the tears in her eyes. "You want love only on your terms, and Raoul has never done that. He loves me without rules and restrictions in place, without pushing me to love him back in the way _he_ wants me to. And I can't help but prefer that as my future when you so vividly destroyed everything else."

"You prefer this?" he shouted, unable to quiet his adamant doubts. "This music-less, emotionless, stale existence in a world of cruelty and bitterness? No music, Christine! No singing! No heart and soul and notes on a page! No stage and applause! No angel to adore your every breath! …No belief in stories and happy endings, in magic and thrilling anticipation. You told an angel once that you knew what you wanted of your life. Do you recall it, Christine? You said your only dream was to sing. Will you give that up for this pathetic excuse of living?"

Every point hit her and made a definitive mark upon her soul, but he had avoided one detail, and she quickly brought it into the light for him. "I said that my dream was to sing _for you_ or for your deceptive angel persona. And I was a naïve child who you preyed upon with your games and lies. Have I now proven why I can't love you?" The tears were breaking free of fluttering lashes and spilling down paled cheeks as she insisted, "You want to possess me, and I won't let you do that again."

Erik raced a furious gaze over her, accepting the weight of her tears as his burden and responsibility, and with a firm denial in place, he promised, "This won't be over, not yet. I've waited and ached for too long. You must see what I feel for you. Christine, I-"

His every attempt was severed in one knock to the door against her back, and as her eyes widened with anxious fear, Erik gave her one last look and disappeared behind her terrace curtains in adamant strides again, lingering beyond sight to listen to the creak of whining hinges on an opening door.

"Mademoiselle," Andrew, the butler, greeted with a wary glance past her into the room. "The Comtesse was concerned about you after you left the party. She asked me to check on you. …Are you all right?"

His intent expression did not accuse her of anything amiss, but she was sure that he must have caught the echoes of another voice as he once again peered into her room. A sweet smile was her pretense, assumed from her stage days as believable as any, and she quickly insisted, "Yes, you may tell her that I will be down in a moment."

Andrew hesitated, and she knew that he was after some sort of excuse or explanation. But she reminded herself that a future Vicomtesse had no obligation to explain anything to a butler and therefore was able to keep up her veneer without a single crack, leaving him to acquiesce to her commands. "Yes, mademoiselle," he replied and granted one more uncertain stare before leaving her room and treading softly down the hallway.

As soon as he was gone, Christine rushed to her terrace and peeked out, searching desperately for a shadow amidst the sunlight, but she found nothing unordinary and no masked man begging to love her. It was almost a relief.


	5. Chapter 5

Two matching squeals of excitement bounded off of the foyer walls, one from the upstairs landing and one from the open front door's threshold but both combining to a deafening high pitch that made Andrew cringe and grimace his annoyance as he watched Christine race down the stairs with pink skirts trailing behind her and catch her golden-haired friend at the base of the banister in a flustered hug.

"Meg! You're here! It's been so long!" Christine was rambling and giggling her delight at the same time. It was the first genuinely blissful emotion she'd felt in longer than she could remember.

"I could hardly wait to get here! The carriage ride seemed an eternity! …Look at this place!" She had lifted her head to scan the overly large, elegant foyer and almost reluctantly recalled her mother standing stoic and with an unaltered expression in the doorway behind her.

Understanding all too well, Christine eagerly played hostess and hurried to greet her old ballet mistress with undimmed enthusiasm. "Madame, how wonderful that you were both able to come!"

"Well, you only get married once," Madame Giry stated firm and emotionless, as sober as Christine recalled her being in every detail unless scolding was involved. "And where is our room? I should like a rest after such brutal travel conditions; that carriage was jostling so viciously that sleep was impossible to indulge."

"Andrew," Christine called, smile yet in place, "will you take Madame Giry to her room?"

The butler was still eyeing Meg and Madame Giry with a sharp scrutiny, but he did as commanded without protest and carried their few bags up the stairs with the ballet mistress close behind.

Meg made a face after them both and asked, "What was that all about?"

"Andrew doesn't know that you're from the opera, remember?" Christine reminded with a smirk. "He's convinced you and your mother are my wealthy cousins."

Giggling to herself, Meg decided, "And the societal elite wouldn't greet each other with shrieking and hugging. What shall it be then? A cold handshake and a 'how do you do'?" She demonstrated by offering a hand and kept a straight face long enough for Christine to oblige the game and take it in hers. "How do you do?"

Reserved herself, Christine flatly declared, "Very well. And you?"

"Boring, I'm sure." That was all it took to resume giggles and boisterous remarks without regret as Christine dragged Meg by the hand she still had into the study with her and watched her friend's eyes widen and sparkle at the scene.

"The Comtesse is known for her decorative styling," Christine insisted with a gesture to the imported furniture and thick, woven wallpaper of the room. "The other ladies in her circle call upon her frequently for her designing opinion."

"And _this_ is how you've been living for four months?" Meg inquired with a feigned haughty tilt to her head, teasing, "I don't like it, not rich _enough_ for my distinguishing tastes!" Her eyes were still interpreting every detail when realization made them dart abruptly back to Christine. "And when you are a Vicomtesse, is this what you will have to look forward to? Is dear Aunt Comtesse de Chagny decorating your new home as well?"

"I truly don't know," Christine replied. "It hasn't been discussed, but I certainly hope not."

Laughing delight, Meg flounced down upon the couch, carefully spreading out her skirts and smoothing every wrinkle. "Oh, Christine, this is so wonderful, every overdone detail, and…." Almost abruptly, her smile faded at its corners, and her true somberness was hinted in green eyes. "I am loath to ruin it for you. You deserve all of these amazing things, but…I have to tell you something, …something awful…."

An idea was already quite developed in Christine's head over what she would say, but she kept her features set and bid gently, "Tell me, Meg. What is it?"

"The…the Opera Ghost, Christine. He…. Oh, I'm so sorry. I've ruined everything…. Oh…." Tears were tumbling from her golden lashes en route down her pink-tinted cheeks, and she wrung little hands in her lap that mussed her once perfect skirts. "He thought you were _dead_; everyone does, and I was so careful to keep the secret. Only Mama and I knew the truth, but…well, he overheard me. Oh, my big mouth! I told Jammes! And he heard about the wedding and everything! Oh, I'm so sorry!"

But Christine's expression remained unchanged in its sculpture, and she revealed, "He's been here, Meg, a couple of times. I…I've seen him, and…I'm as bewildered as I ever was. He has this indisputable way of tossing me off of my stability. It takes little more than a look from his eyes or a single word, and I'm in the same place I was two years ago, his adoring pupil ready to give everything for his favor."

"What…what did he say to you?" Meg nervously stammered, clutching at the material of her skirts. "Did he try to force you to go off with him?"

"No, no," Christine quickly answered. "He wouldn't force me."

"He did before and worse! All of the horrors he's had a hand in committing! He's a monster, Christine! Have you told Raoul that he's here?"

"Of course not! Raoul would have the guards of France out in pursuit if he knew. No, I wouldn't dare speak a word of it. Erik…he doesn't deserve to be hunted and killed like an animal."

"Doesn't he? How can you say that after the things he's done to so many people? To Raoul? To _you_? He nearly forced you to marry him!" Meg's always-anxious nerves had her glancing about the sun-filled room as if looking for some hidden token in the shadows. "What are you going to do, Christine? If he's here, it can only mean tragedy."

"He isn't here to hurt me," Christine vowed resolutely, never a doubt to be seen on that subject. "He would never; he loves me, Meg. He's said as much, and…Raoul convinced him that I was dead." The mere statement of the fact shone with a sadness in her eyes. Erik had mourned her as if she was forever gone from him. "I cannot even fathom that. And he looks at me now with such awe in his eyes, as if he's thanking God that I exist. It…it's overwhelming!"

Meg was shaking her head idly with her aversion. "I think you should tell Raoul."

"I can't, and you can't either. _Please_, Meg. You cannot tell anyone, not even your mother."

"As if I would! She'd have my head for ever betraying her and sharing the news with Jammes. We were sworn to secrecy, you know, but…well, secrets are not my strong point." Thin shoulders shrugged with an amount of blamelessness for a reality that just was, and she added, "But…you haven't answered my question. What are you going to do, Christine? Neither of your beaus is just going to let you go."

With a desolate sigh, she admitted, "I don't know, Meg. If I was only stronger! I'd force Erik away!"

"Maybe…maybe being strong is _not_ forcing Erik away." The consideration wasn't one she could encourage, but it had a certain amount of legitimate honesty to it that Meg hated to ponder as reality and yet could not denounce.

"You are far too intuitive," Christine commented with the hint of a grin to realize that she was right. "Being strong is not running away and not taking the easier path. But…I don't know that being strong is loving him either. …He makes it impossible to love him."

"And yet you do it anyway," Meg finished for her. "I can't give you an answer and tell you what to do, but I can tell you whatever you decide, be sure. Don't break hearts if you don't have to."

Christine nodded her agreement, but in her head, she knew broken hearts were inevitable. There was always bound to be damage.

* * *

Later that evening, clouds were rolling in to shroud the pale colors of the sky and hint at rain as Christine watched their ominous threat from the parlor windows. Madame Giry had dragged Meg up to her bed after supper had ended with an insistence on a full night's sleep, and though Meg had promised to sneak back down at her first opportunity, she had yet to appear, leaving Christine with nothing but her own thoughts for company. How torturous a wandering mind could be! And perhaps a distraction would have been ideal, but the instant she caught the low rumbling sound of Raoul's voice in the hallway approaching, she leapt off of the couch and scurried out the terrace doors into the embracing breeze of the impending storm. No, she couldn't take the guilt right now.

And she ran. She knew from the moment the house was beyond her sight that she was being followed and had no question to the identity of her pursuer. How often had they played this game? The Opera Ghost spying from the shadows, more phantom than angel, and though she did not let on, she was certain that he knew that she was purposely leading him through the brush to a particular place as the scent of rain hung in the air and random droplets began to sputter forth out of the cloud's bed.

Her private escape. His had always been underground in the dark, his refuge from the world; hers was a vine-covered gazebo amidst the flowers of spring, equally as secluded from anyone's eyes, a sanctuary unto itself. How often did she resign herself to its protection to practice when she had no place else to go? It had been a sheer stroke of fortune that she had found it tucked away in the far reaches of the garden, and when being overheard mid-aria was inconsiderable and practically forbidden, it was a good enough distance away to keep her from worry.

Rain was pattering against the rooftop as she huddled inside, syncopated beats lacking any decided pattern, and as the growling of thunder called in the distance, she hugged her body tight and glanced about at the shadows peering in and sought one specific and distinct amidst the shades of darkness. That mask came into view first, its starkness too brilliant to remain hidden, before his silhouette, mismatched eyes dancing with a mixture of amusement and longing that choked any greeting she might have formed.

Erik studied her intently, trailing a necessary stare along every limb, every feature, purposely savouring the manner in which her pale pink gown complimented her complexion and made her blue eyes look deeper and an entirely new shade than usual. How funny when a simple background color could alter the typical spectrum? Even her skin appeared more like cream, not as pale and white. Minor details, but he absorbed every one and was desperate for more.

Gathering as much of his typically-acted aloof demeanor as he could, he stated plainly, "For as adamant as you are about marrying your Vicomte and assuming the title of Vicomtesse, you certainly spend a good deal of time running from that life and its world. Is this your usual pattern of behavior? Or has my presence brought it out of you? Are you now seeing how empty such a life is? How unfulfilling? How not _you_?"

Avoiding an answer when it must be the one he was after or be a lie, she demanded back, "And do you spend every moment of the day watching me to know such things? Is that all _your_ life holds?"

He shrugged idly and revealed, "Most of it. I am not ashamed to admit that you _are_ my life. If only you had the courage to do the same, then perhaps I wouldn't have to linger in the shadows to be near to you." As he spoke, he dared to approach in unwavering footsteps, joining her scene as thunder rumbled closer in its own appearance and raindrops created a pulse to movement.

"The Vicomte would kill you if he knew you were here," she insisted, knowing he'd glimpse how she trembled simply with his nearness, anticipating a touch that had yet to come.

Another nonchalant shrug. "He'd try; I doubt he'd succeed. Had he come after me, sword at the ready, any time in the past four months, he'd have so easily bested me. I _craved_ death when I thought that was where you would be. But now…with you here and before me, only a mere relinquishing of pride away from being mine, the Vicomte would lose. He wouldn't be able to defeat a man with a purpose for living."

"This isn't about pride," she protested, desperate to seem in control as her shaking fingers curved into her palms to make urgent fists. No, she would not touch him again. "Nor is it about courage. We are not meant for each other. Why do you not see that?"

Her statement was sharp in its attack, and his bravado was shattered with one painful consideration that he uttered in soft, thick tones that revealed too much of his heart. "Is it my face, Christine? Is that the real reason then? Is it still so repellent to you that it keeps you denying me at every turn?"

"How can you even ask such a thing?" The guilt over past indiscretions was potent within her and had never fully been relieved. No, it still bore a blame that made her heart ache with _his_ pain.

"It _is_ a reality," he snapped with a flicker of that temper she so despised. "It can never be anything else; my face will always be the damaged palette it is. And it disgusted you so completely once. Beneath the mask, it is the same abhorrent disgrace as ever before. Perhaps its memory incites you to retain walls between us."

Bitterness creased her brow and kept her from being dismantled by his harsh blatancy. No, she would not falter, not on this issue, and she retorted in equaled flames of resentment, "I hate your mask! I loathe its very presence! It gives you a reason to hide and an excuse for your own immorality. _You_ use it as the boundary that you accuse of me. You would never believe that it doesn't matter."

"You hate the mask?" he couldn't keep from shouting back, matching and exceeding the volume of the tempest outside in his rage. "Then do away with it, Christine! Destroy it for all I care! Take that boundary away and find the one that will _always_ exist behind it! You forget that I have a necessary reason to hide."

"No! I _never_ forget! You wear the mask so that _you_ can forget!" she accused without sway, refusing even the anxious reach of cowardice. She kept firm and insisted again, "I abhor the very image of your mask. It has been the travesty that haunts my dreams with its vision and every implication that it brings."

"Then take it away from me. If its presence is what makes you hate and shun me, then rid me of it. But will you then love the monster you uncover? Will that do it? Prove to me that you can!"

On the unshaken wings of impulse and fury, she obeyed and reached for that damning mask, tearing it free in one abrupt jerk and exposing the face it concealed and its every unavoidable flaw. The mask slipped unnoticed to the floor as her concentration was caught and held captive by abnormal shapes, by ugliness and deformity, by a monster or a devil or whatever other valid insult he had been called in his lifetime. It was veiled in the shadows of a hidden dusk, illuminated in flashing pulsations of lightning or else it was little more than a nightmare of a subconscious mind. His mismatched eyes were bearing into her with mere betrayal, _always_ betrayal between them, and the emerald orb sunken so far into the circumference of a gaping socket pierced her intently to the core, robbed as it had been of its manmade cavity and now heinously on display. A corpse, she remembered that he had called himself upon her first stealing of his mask, and a corpse he was, so vividly dead in appearance like the decaying skeleton's revelation and yet equally as alive as the gasped breaths past bloated lips pronounced. He was ugly to behold, and it hurt her to know that he believed that it still mattered to her.

"Oh, Erik, " she could not keep from whispering, oddly grateful to glimpse that face in all of its monstrous glory. That face made him suddenly real and suddenly hers. Edging closer with a silent question always in her eyes, she dared to extend trembling fingers to that horror, impatient to feel what she had so long avoided touching. Touch made things real as much as it had for him to believe that she was alive, and now to lay quivering fingertips against the malformed plane of his cheekbone, touch made him Erik.

His eyelids had fluttered closed, brow furrowing with his unique urgency to savour every second of this indiscretion. Her trepid fingers against his disfigurement were almost too much to bear, the sensations acute and poignant as they raced little thrills along the surface of every inch of his body's flesh. One touch, and it extended everywhere at once.

Mesmerized by her own actions, Christine transformed a touch into a caress, brushing delicately along that irregular, sallow cheek down to his jawbone and up again to barely graze the blank canvas that should have been filled with the overlooked normalcy of a nose. And it amazed her that her mind was pondering an odd thought: that the typical human face was something so common and almost boring while this face was something new, perhaps distorted but interesting in concept and design. She wondered what he would think of such a definition. Interesting was an improvement to ugly and could eventually lead to extraordinarily beautiful instead. It could if she let it and stopped holding such musings tight and refusing their acknowledgment. For too long under Raoul's encouragement, she had refused to consider this face as anything but unnaturally abhorrent and evil. But now if she looked upon its distinctions herself, she could not find evil; she only found Erik.

His eyes had opened to watch her, to observe every expression to cross her pretty features as she fixedly regarded her hand and its smoothness and ordinariness against his scars. "You are not disgusted," he stated confidently.

"I haven't been disgusted by this face in a long time," she replied, somber yet and focused on the motion of her thumb along the misshapen swell of his upper lip. "Disgust was a response of impulse, and it was ignorant and childish." Her gaze darted to quickly catch his as it was entranced always upon her. "Why are you so surprised? I chose this face that last night we were together in the catacombs; I _kissed_ it. And yet you look at me now as if you cannot believe me."

"But you also once ran from this face and the man who bears it," he accused yet always in soft tones, anger lost to the rain outside and its incessant taps.

"No, I ran from the man in the mask, and this man before me now was the one who broke my heart. And even though they are the same, and every version is you, I cannot love them all."

"No, you can't," he agreed, tilting his scars further into her touch and delighting in its wonderful sense of branding possession over him. "I've never loved you as I should have, Christine. I've never given you a man worthy of you. I've instead manipulated a heart I've longed to be mine and sought to control its every beat. You said as much yesterday. I never _let you_ love me, not unless I was the one deciding how it was to be done."

Her own allegations and spoken with such genuine sincerity that it left her expression to soften and the corners of her lips to rise in the hint of a grin. "And what will that mean?"

The smile she was containing appeared on his lips instead and was strangely brilliant without a mask to stifle it. "I want to give you a love story rather than the tragedy we've suffered," he vowed gently. "I want to give you the love story you deserve."

It was so tempting to fall into the dream, to believe and cling to his every word as candid truth, but with her palm yet cupping his cheek in the most intimate caress she'd ever given him, she reluctantly replied, "Perhaps…until doubt returns and you remember that you must believe my heart solely on my promises and actions. You've always preferred to decide how it should feel and why. You once pushed me to Raoul because _you_ believed I would grow fond of him."

"Christine…." Only then did he indulge his urge and touch her back, catching her face between his palms and cradling her delicate features. "I never knew how to love you until I lost you. And now…I'm learning, _ange_. Love has always been denied to me and held so far from my grasp. You must forgive me if it therefore terrifies me to truly feel it."

"You were once going to make me your prisoner if I didn't choose you, despite anything I felt in return," she pushed.

"And I don't want a prisoner…or a reverent worshiper at my feet. I want a love; I want _you_. But I equally want it to be your own choosing, your own love in return." His scars were tingling with the imprint of her warm palm, their faces enshrouded in shadows of the dusk storm that was consuming natural light, but his dark-accustomed eyes read her lingering apprehension despite her silence. "Have I carried you off, Christine? I could have done so time and again these last days. I have a house just beyond the de Chagny lands; I could have abducted you as I've done before, brought you there, locked you inside with no hope of escape. I could have stolen your freedom and forced my love upon her whether you wanted it or not under the pretext of a choice you once made. But that isn't how I want you."

She was sadly shaking her head from side to side, and tears tainted her voice. "I am to marry Raoul in four days, Erik. He loves me, and even if he doubts my own love in return, my affection is enough for him. He's never asked for more."

"He told me that you were dead!" Erik exclaimed feverishly. "He stole your life in every sense of the word! And he won't ever ask you for more because he knows if he did, he'd lose you. The more you can't give is _mine_; it's the bond we share that he can only envy."

"No, Erik," she stated as she drew her hand away to his blatant disappointment. Her fingers were clenching defenseless in the air, her body pulling away when he acted without thought to consequence.

Her face was still being cradled in his firm hold, and he suddenly leaned close and pressed his misshapen lips to her perfect mouth, experiencing the shudder that racked her frame with her.

Kissing her this time was far more exquisite than the night in the catacombs because it was by his own impetus. He was creating the caress, and without the surprise that had been prevalent then, he was able to revel in the sheer bliss of such a mediocre contact. Lips touching, his were deformed, and yet they were solely hers, claimed from their first attempt at this shared intimacy. They moved so timidly and uncertain, awkward only until she succumbed and met the kiss and returned it, filling in his insecurities and making him brave. A kiss, and though its name dubbed it an established and common act, it was anything but. It was a revelation; it was vows of love and devotion spoken only by the rain outside in linguistic patters. Her face was being held in a place she had no intention to leave, and in the midst of an incoherent fog of emotion, she had one clear thought: that this moment was a piece of heaven confined to earth. It must have been to be kissing an angel.

Tears, there were tears, rising to flood his eyes with their condemning presence, and with a rush of reluctance, he ducked his head away and severed their closeness, ashamed to allow her to see.

"_Ange_…," she whispered gently as her hazy eyes fluttered open and sought his dark shape in the gazebo, and she noted how he shivered simply to be called such an ethereal appellation again. "What…what is it? You're crying."

"No," he lied, still refusing to look at her, but all at once, before she could protest, he caught her and pulled her close to his body, pressing his bare face into her hair and thrilling when she tentatively embraced him back with willowy, trembling arms that weaved about his waist. "You were dead," he was muttering against her crown, and that was reason enough.

In that moment, she hated Raoul so fiercely that tears of her own stung her eyes. Dead and mourned. Lost to a grave. "No, Erik, no," she gently breathed, rubbing her cheek against his chest to revel in his beating heart. "I'm here and alive. You're holding me, and you're still terrified to believe that I am real."

"I blamed myself," he admitted in matching quiet. "It was my fault that you would take your life. I drove you to it. Loving me made you suffer."

"No," she insisted with a sudden adamancy. "It was a lie; it never happened. My God, he made you believe it so certainly that you aren't even listening to my words. Erik, …you're shaking so hard." Her hold on him instinctively tightened, granting him the strength he lacked and could not seem to find. "_Ange_, _please_…."

"I'm frightening you," he concluded, rubbing desperate hands along her spine to mold her closer. "But it was the guilt of it and the pain of losing you, …to think I'd never have this when I'd been so sure that I would! I was broken, as damaged as you yourself had been, and how much agony played upon my soul! …Christine, don't let go."

"I won't," she promised, daring to press a random kiss to the place of his heart.

"I still have such a fear of every moment I'm not watching you from afar, that you'll be dead and beyond my reach once again and I will be alone."

His body still shook, and she clasped firmly with her own sudden unjustified terror of the same thing, separation and loneliness as if the past months weren't enough. And it shocked her to realize how intense the urging was to fall into this moment and never come out, to pretend that Raoul didn't exist and hadn't spent months loving her and taking care of her. Her heart was adamantly calling the Vicomte an enemy for the life he'd knowingly shattered, and yet…. How could she condemn him for acting out of love? …Especially when once before Erik had done the same? Taken to extremes for fear of a broken heart. It seemed impossible to hate one and not the other for the same sin.

With a spiraling head too full of confusion to find the path to decision, she reluctantly drew free of Erik's hold, surprised when he yielded and released her, applying his stoic pretense back into place.

"Four days," he repeated for her. "Four days until your wedding, and that gives me four days to prove my words and give you the love you want. Will you grant me such a chance, Christine? If I vow to you right this instant to not be the madman I was that last night at the opera or the so-called phantom ready to murder at whim, if I vow to control my temper and my vices and show you a man and not a monster."

Sense argued that it must end badly, that his proposed idea was bordering on ridiculous, but her heart was glimpsing such hope within them both. Four days, and she felt the thin cord already existing between their souls, one tug away from snapping, and she nodded her consent with never a smile or a nuance of encouragement. It hardly felt something to be happy about when it was most decisively a betrayal.

That was exactly the answer he wanted, and with a trepid grin, he bent to retrieve his mask, replacing it and hiding the face she missed when regarding the Opera Ghost instead. And yet wasn't the man before her already so different and changed? She had grown accustomed to being steered in one direction or the next by his whims and temper, but this Erik didn't look as if he was about to snap and command her concession. He simply looked grateful for a chance at something else.

"Until tomorrow," he bid as a promise, and before she could argue or change her mind, he raced out into the rainstorm and disappeared in the shadows, leaving her to stare in addled uncertainty in his wake.


	6. Chapter 6

From the moment they walked in the door of the next night's soiree, Christine felt all eyes upon her, crawling across skin like leeches looking for a place to bite. These social engagements were growing more frequent, and though Raoul had previously allowed them to decline attending, the approach of their wedding had him eager to follow protocol and make an appearance. This particular gathering was being hosted at the country home of another wealthy comte, not very far from Raoul's aunt, and already, it seemed as if half of the county was present.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Meg softly queried as she huddled closer to Christine away from a furiously gossiping group of debutantes. "I'm not yet sure if I'm grateful that you asked for my company, not when I'm half-convinced that they're talking about me as well."

"Of course they are; it's what they do," Christine replied, clasping Meg's arm in support. "I am quite used to it by now. I spend most of these events as the outcast until Raoul's aunt takes pity and adds me to her group of older ladies. I fear the younger ones will always despise me for snatching up Raoul before they ever had a chance at him."

"What a revolting branch of society!" Meg decided. "I'd rather be destitute and polite than wealthy and conceited."

"I doubt a single person here would agree with you." A smile was curving Christine's lips, and she knew that she had Meg to thank for its creation, for the first time not caring that the girls nearest to them were shooting whispered comments behind telltale hands held to their lips. "Oh, let them talk! Not a word they can say would ever amount to one shrill insult from La Carlotta, and I endured dozens of her cold comments stated before cast and crew without a single tear or breakdown. These girls and their pettiness are trivial in comparison!"

"I wholeheartedly agree," Meg decided with a firm nod, "but will you be able to endure this kind of cruelty on a daily basis without me here to walk beside you? Vicomtesse may have to be your greatest performance to date."

Snapping her fingers with the thought, Christine replied, "Exactly! It shall be a performance, and I will portray it as flawless and realistic as possible."

"For the rest of your life?" Meg posed doubtfully. "That sounds utterly exhausting."

"Well, what shall you propose?"

Lowering her voice to a whisper with a raised hand to match the rest of their gossipers, Meg answered, "Forget all of it, and come back to the opera."

"The opera? Where I am a _dead_ previous prima donna?" It was the first time she'd been able to add any sort of genuine laugh to the lie.

Shrugging idly, Meg nonchalantly offered, "Perhaps you'll fit right in. You can be the Opera Ghost's wife and sing concerts back from the dead while the Opera Ghost accompanies you on the piano. Imagine it: a haunted performance!"

Opera Ghost's wife…. Christine's smile faded with the realization of how near to the truth Meg had jokingly come, but she was never given the chance to retort as Raoul's Aunt Constance caught her arm and drew her attention.

"Christine, the ladies have informed me that there is to be a little impromptu performance at the end of the evening. They would really adore a song." Lowering her voice behind a hand, Constance added, "It would be wonderful for your reputation and help you to make some new acquaintances. Society enjoys good talent."

As long as it was within society's guidelines, Christine silently mused. And she had the distinct feeling that if she sang, she'd acquire more enemies than friends. "I…I really don't think so."

"Christine, you should!" Meg quickly interjected, and despite her friend's frantically shaking head, she told Constance, "Christine is practically a diva. She amazes every person who hears her sing; they're always shocked that such a big and brilliant voice comes out of such a tiny girl!"

"Meg, you're not helping," Christine muttered, but Constance was already taking the choice out of her hands.

"Wonderful indeed!" the Comtesse declared. "I shall tell the ladies to add you to the program, last if possible. I should love to have a member of _my_ family show up some of those little society daughters. New money can pose such arrogance; they believe they have a right to play equals with those of us whose bloodlines are rich! This will definitely put our name on their lips!"

As Constance rushed off, Christine averted horrified eyes to Meg. "I can't sing!" she breathlessly gasped. "Raoul doesn't want me singing, not in the public eye anyway! He doesn't want us to draw attention, not after what happened!"

"Oh, he won't care," Meg insisted, scanning the crowd only to find the Vicomte in a heated conversation with a group of gentlemen. "I doubt he'll even realize that a performance is going on. It doesn't seem like the men pay much attention to what their ladies are off and doing. Look. The majority of them are having to be reminded that this soiree includes dancing. They're too engrossed discussing politics!"

It was true. Raoul and an entire throng were having a debate whose ruckus could be heard even over the orchestra's melody. A few of the perturbed wives had even gone over to swat their husband's arms and drag them out for a dance despite the breach of etiquette such behavior boasted. Perhaps Raoul wouldn't even notice….

To Meg's delight as the evening wore on, a young gentleman with kind eyes approached and asked for a dance, and the little ballerina tried to play her part as a lady even if she was a bit too elegant and graceful on her feet, leading their motion as her partner awkwardly followed and tripped clumsily at every beat. Christine took the opportunity to scoot back away from too many observing eyes, and careful not to be noticed, she slipped out onto the back terrace and was captured by the eager arms of the twilight breeze. She felt utterly weightless and free after too long burdened by society's restrictions. What a preferred idea it was to linger outside and away, to allow the party to continue on without her and go unmissed in the melee. If only!

Suddenly perking up in stature and poise, Christine called out to the emptiness, "A gentleman would ask for a dance instead of spying in shadows."

"I have never been accomplished at being a gentleman," Erik replied as he stepped into the revealing moonlight, trailing eager eyes over her exquisite appearance. She wore midnight blue, gathered into an elaborate bustle in the back and trimmed in silver lace. Never before had she looked more like a fine lady, and yet never before had she looked less like herself. And as beautiful as she was, he silently missed unbound curls and comfortable gowns; this was too much like another costume of the stage. "Perhaps you should guide me in proper etiquette so that I may know what is expected of me in this world."

"And do you anticipate using such knowledge? I was under the impression that you do not favor social interactions if they can be avoided," Christine teased with a subject she knew to be bitter, but leaning idly on her toes with an almost playful tilt to her head, she made it seem trivial and unimportant; _almost_ playful because she wouldn't consider being playful with Erik. No, not playful….

"Typically," he replied, mimicking her light tone because it was far too delightful to savour the brilliant twinkle in her blue eyes and know that it meant life and that it was his. "But I also typically do not seek to capture a lady's affections, and if in my endeavors, I must choose to dance rather than spy, I will do so wholeheartedly…for _you_ at least." Formality left with one hungry look that ran like wildfire over her skin and made her tremble through every inch of her body. Under that forcibly intent stare, he gave a slight bow and offered a hand that shook in its feigned bravado, explaining, "Unconventional propriety. I'll accept a dance under the moonlight and alone instead of in a room full of prying strangers who do not approve of a mask as an article of fashion. …Will you permit me?"

Her grin still bore a tentative wariness at its corners, but she conceded and set her hand in his, weaving their fingers together as he gently tugged her into his arms. It was quiet, the night still with only the orchestra's strains filtering out through ajar terrace doors to accompany a private dance. With an unsure hand forming about the curve of her waist, he began to lead her in slow, languid footsteps, thrilling as she hesitantly inched nearer until she could lay her cheek against his shoulder.

His voice vibrated against her temple as he said, "I may be unaccustomed to propriety, but I've observed enough from the background to know that this is not the usual manner that dancing is indulged. Do you dance with every gentleman this close to you?"

"Do you hold every lady against your heart?" she posed in return. "You were, after all, the one to put me here."

"I've held no lady but you," he answered and turned to rest his unmasked cheek to her silken head, wishing to be bare-faced and free of obtrusions, to bury scars in the uplifted cloud of soft curls. "I am only fortunate that you allow my indiscretion and permit me to hold you as I will."

Closing her eyes and filling her senses with every detail that was him, she shattered the unbidden intimacy of the moment and revealed steadily, "I have to sing, Erik, in their little impromptu concert at the end of the evening. They're expecting a pretty girl with a pleasant voice, perhaps a bit more refined and trained than other ladies but definitely not a diva of the stage."

"And yet that is what you are and what you shall be," Erik decided for her. "I did not spend countless months developing your technique and talent to have you purposely diminish it. I warn you now: if you dare shame yourself in front of this throng and depreciate the extent of what you can do, I will indulge my whims and let the Opera Ghost manifest in the midst of that ballroom to put an irremovable stain on your reputation."

She did not doubt that he meant it, and how could she hate him for it when he was only seeking to push her back to her potential? Brow furrowing against the rich material of his suit jacket, she continued with one solemn point, "Raoul doesn't want me to sing for anyone ever again."

"I assumed that," he replied tightly and huffed so harshly against her hair that fleeting tendrils stirred. "That Vicomte of yours could never understand how integral music is to your very existence. It lives and breathes in your soul, and without it, it leaves a gaping hole like a piece of your being is missing and stolen away. He could never comprehend that without it, you are only half of yourself. He simply wants it to be gone and forgotten; the music was always mine, and that tortures him."

No valid argument against him could be assembled, and she simply stated, "Music always meant you; how could it be anything else when you have been the source of my inspiration, _ange_? When music was our only ally in a world all our own, I never had to question the toils of my heart; they were always vivid and did not condemn me."

"Music is pure," he explained, "and we both know its passion so intensely. We've always loved each other through its notes on staves; it could be the root to something epic if only we'd let it grow." It was as much of a hint to smoldering desires that he could give, and turning his cheek to graze a clumsy kiss that the mask prevented from speaking fire, he said, "You know what you have to do, Christine, and it isn't about _my_ pride or ambition. You would choose to be true to the music with or without my encouragement. It's too deeply embedded within the marrow of your bones to deny it for the ugliness that that world of society tries to place upon you. You are too good for that."

Christine did not deny his words, and yet she was still loath to leave the quiet comfort of his arms and the trepid dance they were still sharing at a haphazard beat. It was just too perfect with only star glow and moonlight to intrude, and when the urging to beg for more tickled her senses, she did not halt it upon her tongue. "Don't let this end yet. Please, Erik, …I've waited all day just to _feel_ you."

"I've waited four months," he countered. "And I'd choose to argue that I'm waiting still. I may hold you and have you here, but it is only a piece of you when I'm waiting for everything to be mine. I'm waiting until I can feel you and know without a doubt that you will not run from me or push me away ever again, that one moment in one dance is only the prelude to hundreds more. …Do such admissions affect you, Christine? Do they make you long for the same? If I beg in return, can they be mine?"

An answer was yet beyond her with her fiancé in a party going on behind her, but by fortune's stroke, she did not have to give it with any sort of understatement or lie, not as they were interrupted in a flustered, quaking call.

"Christine…?" Meg was frozen in her place at the terrace doorway, staring at the dancing couple with her wide, horror-stricken eyes that did not lessen in their astonishment even as the pair parted and broke their embrace. "The…the performances are about to start, and…the Comtesse was looking for you. I…I told her that I'd find you."

Though Erik's stare was cold on the little Giry, he could not fully denounce her presence when it gave Christine some sort of genuine companion in the vicious world of the elite. Yet still, …he hated to be taken unaware and most especially when his time with Christine was so precious in its brevity. Ignoring the gaping ballerina, he dared to stroke his fingers down Christine's cheek with an acute swell of a possessiveness that he knew she did not favor. He couldn't help it; she had always felt like solely his to keep. But his expression remained tender as he bid, "Show them what you can do, Christine, and how far above them you truly are."

But she read his yearning and stated with the hint of a grin, "I will never admit to being yours until you can say that you are equally mine."

"_Always_ yours," he breathed with beaming hope and brought her hand to his face, brushing his lower lip along her knuckles reverently before he finally found the ability to release her.

Just as reluctant, Christine halted long enough to raise herself on tiptoe and form her own worshipping kiss set to his only bare cheek so that he would feel the depth of her caress. "Thank you, _ange_," she whispered sincerely, and that was all she could say in current company. Quickly turning about, she hurried to join a wary Meg and captured her arm, guiding the little ballerina back inside and out of the moonlight.

"Christine…," Meg nervously stammered but could only shake her head. "Wooing the Opera Ghost with a fiancé a windowed wall away? I hope you know what you are doing."

"I don't," she confided back, but the smile on her lips said far more and shimmered in the confidence she had earlier been lacking. "When do I sing?"

Nearly at the instant she asked, one of the younger girls lifted her voice to resound through the room, and both Meg and Christine cringed at her inability to remain on the pitch given by a piano's accompaniment. And much of the rest of their untitled concert was like that. Girls whose families boasted of their supposed talent and training and not more than a few decent timbres in the bunch. At least for how conceited opera divas could be, they had the talent to back it up! This was rather pathetic in comparison.

When it came to be Christine's turn, she cast one idle glance over the group, but Raoul was in an adjoining study chuckling and drinking with his comrades, not paying a bit of attention to the concert. She knew that was unavoidably about to change.

With a supportive pat upon her shoulder from Aunt Constance, Christine took her place in front of the crowd, noticing how many eyes were bitter upon her, ready to tear her apart with one single flaw. She was determined that they'd find none.

It was in the instant that she opened her mouth and released a voice that had felt trapped inside for too long that she suddenly felt like herself, like the soul she had been stifling and slowly suffocating was finally flowing unhindered in waves and living again. How right Erik had been! Without singing, she was truly a step from death!

Her chosen piece was one of her harder arias, showcasing skill and musicianship, but she knew that she would have shined with any piece she chose as the fullness of her timbre echoed out to every corner of the room and stunned her audience to gaping expressions. And she was doubtless that watching just as intently from some undisclosed place was Erik; she could feel his pride radiating around her and encouraging more and higher, full sound, full voice, and every nuance as near to perfection as possible. Was it any wonder that she sang for him? She had never been able to be a diva, so he had resculpted the title for her, pouring confidence into every space it didn't exist even if it was his own. It definitely made her voice as much his as it was hers.

She was executing a flawless cadenza when a flicker of her attention averted to the other imperative member of her audience. The Vicomte de Chagny stood in the doorway to the room, unable to fully conceal his shock beneath a proper veneer. Astonishment, annoyance that she would dare, and undeniably an inkling of his own extended pride. She sang, and he believed that she was _his_ now that Erik should only be considered a shadow of the past. She would gain accolades, and the Vicomte would equally accept their glow; yes, yes, he was the fortunate one to be marrying the little songbird. And even if he raged at her for singing behind closed doors, he would savour her praises from his precious society's mouths as if he'd approved all along.

Even as she thought such travesties, she did not falter in her last high note, making it come to life and bloom on its pitch into brilliance before a sweeping of applause carried it away. Envy all around from too many of the younger ladies whose parlor songs had been outshone, but many of the older socialites were genuinely in awe, reminding Christine of the patrons at the opera. People just like these, wealthy and supporting the arts, reacting similarly to the performance of the prima donna, and just as she had in that setting, she graciously accepted their acclaim, curtsying elegantly with her stage smile upon her lips. Only Erik would have known about the surge of her apprehension to be so appreciated, her modesty always a step away, and like a recollection of this scene acted out in days lost, she knew that only _his_ voice and _his_ praises would calm her.

But she never got a chance to search for him as she was accosted by a stunned Aunt Constance, who was unable to make words and only gave an uncommon hug, clasping Christine by her shoulders and squeezing her tight for a brief moment before she just stared, wide-eyed.

"Comtesse," Christine attempted to be the intelligible one between them, "are you all right?"

"You…," she stammered, shaking her head to break herself of flustered awe. "When you said you were trained in the arts, …well, I never imagined _that_ would come out of you. In one song, you've created a point of status; everyone will want to be associated with the new Vicomtesse de Chagny now. I mean…I haven't heard singing like that outside of an opera production. No society girl has ever shown such talent…." It was half of a conclusion, but Christine was unable to form a lie of explanation as Raoul joined them.

The Vicomte's adoration wasn't entirely real; Christine caught glimpses of his agitation beneath, but he put on a convincing show for his fellow comrades and captured her hand to set an acceptable kiss to her knuckles. "You were…wonderful, Christine," he tightly complimented. "Wonderful indeed. …But I think it's time we take our leave."

"So soon?" his aunt inquired, disappointment pouting her lips. "But I would love to walk about the room with Christine and introduce her to some of her new admirers."

"We have to go," Raoul abruptly insisted. "With only three days to the wedding, Christine needs her rest; that is a valid excuse. But you stay, Auntie. I'll send the carriage back for you. I know how you like to remain through the last bout of dancing. Don't feel obligated to leave with us."

"Well, …all right then, I shall stay. Someone must be here to receive Christine's compliments. I cannot wait to gush over my new niece to the rest of them. It's good to be above the throng, Raoul, as I've always told you."

"Above the throng," Raoul muttered to himself with a dubious shake of his head, and squeezing Christine's elbow, he commanded curtly, "Get Meg, and we'll go. Quickly please. We need to be free of this group as soon as possible."

She didn't question him yet; she simply obeyed, skirting between bodies and grinning at the occasional kind sentiment until she could practically drag Meg away from her heart-struck gentleman. By the time they were joining him in the foyer, Raoul was wearing a biting expression that even Meg cringed to endure. The argument was brewing, but silence was chosen for the carriage ride home, even if it did nothing to lessen the tension in the air like a thick cloud; it was hard to catch a breath when lost within its haze.

As they finally entered the mansion, Raoul abandoned the girls without even a word or pleasantry, stomping off to his study like a belligerent child.

"He's really that angry because you sang?" Meg asked nervously as both she and Christine stared after the Vicomte.

"He'll make it seem that way, but…it's more than that," Christine replied. "Go on up to bed, Meg. I…I need to talk to him."

Hesitant yet, Meg quickly hugged Christine tight and told her, "Whatever he says, you were amazing, Christine. You belong on the stage even if he argues otherwise. You come to life when you sing."

"Erik would say the same." Merely mentioning his name made Christine long for his presence, for his praises and pride, everything she had been denied in their hasty departure. It would have made her stand taller and more defiant than she felt as she wearily left Meg and approached the quiet study. Erik would have made her certain that she'd done the right thing in a way that she was unable to fully believe on her own; no, her bravery would crumble beneath the Vicomte.

He was seated at his desk, staring blankly at fisted hands resting atop the wood, his expression matching in its tense glare, and he did not regard her until she broke into his thoughts with a gentle call. "Raoul?"

"You weren't supposed to sing," he muttered, still staring at fists. "I told you months ago. I said that if you loved me, you wouldn't sing again. Do you remember, Christine? If you loved me…."

"Your aunt told those ladies that I would," she weakly attempted, internally scolding the futility of such an argument.

"But in the end, it was _your_ choice. _You_ were the one to stand upon that platform, and _you_ were the one to sing and be the opera star once again."

"They don't know that," she protested. "They don't know about the opera; they just know that I'm trained-"

"And how long until someone figures it out?" he abruptly shouted as he darted to his feet. "How long until even one of them recognize you? I have had to create such detailed lies of who you are and how we met. _Acceptable_ lies. But they are not fools! Most of them keep city houses; did you never consider that? Some of them may have even _seen you_ perform on the opera's stage! For God's sake, Christine, you've put our entire future in jeopardy!"

Even as she winced beneath his fury, she did not allow herself to break. No, she had withstood the temper of the almighty Opera Ghost, and his wrath was deadly compared to this. "I think you're being ridiculous," she insisted as strongly as she could. "All I did was sing a song."

"No, you put your past on display before all of society, the past I have so desperately tried to disconnect you from. You practically shouted to an audience of the elite that you were once an opera singer and whore to the Opera Ghost!"

"What?" She did not refrain from shouts and temper of her own. Not when such a detail was being hoisted at her. "How dare you?"

"But it's true!" he yelled back. "_Everyone_ knew your story, and I have diligently worked to make it inconsequential and give them no reason to think you and the Christine from the opera of Paris were one and the same. No one would have dared question me; even if they had suspected, they would have never said a word against a Vicomte. But now you've made me look like a liar and destroyed both of our reputations. All it takes is one person to speak the thought, and everyone will know the truth."

"And that is such a shame to you, isn't it?" she accused coldly. "To be marrying the phantom's 'whore'? …How could you ever imply such a thing? Especially considering that you know the real story; you know who Erik is. You saw it played out before you."

"And you would recall that now?" he sharply demanded. "I have never once uttered a word about that night for your sake and sanity. I have never blamed you for what you did."

"What I did?" Christine was shaking down every limb with her growing rage. "I saved your life!"

"You chose to give yourself to another man!" he corrected in matching tone. "I am no fool! I know _exactly_ what you did that night! A single kiss said it all! It was never about my imminent death. That was just a convenience to choose _him_; have you any idea how such a truth tortures me, Christine? To know that no matter what I do to make you happy, I can never be the one you chose and the one you wanted." The anguish was vividly brought forth from its place of burial, and it stung Christine and made her own anger fade to tears that pinched at the corners of her eyes.

"And that is equally why you don't want me to sing," she added in a soft breath. "You don't want society to know who I was, but you also don't want _me_ to recall it. When I sing, …it will always mean _him_."

No protest came, swallowed back in a full throat; the Vicomte simply commanded, "Promise me that you won't sing ever again, Christine. If you love me, you won't sing again."

The same guilt-laced order, and it struck Christine as harshly as it had in its first appearance months before. With its statement, the Vicomte cast her one more look and abruptly stalked out of his study, leaving her there, alone with her tears.

Two minutes. Two minutes spent in such misery, and she refused any more. Wiping away tears with the backs of her hands, she ran for the door and silently stepped out into the night. Her one thought was to get to Erik, but although she knew his current home was nearby, she had no idea how to find it in the dark. Perhaps she would become a lost wanderer in the woods and never come out again. But would that be such an awful fate when she could cause pain so easily that it was almost another talent?

Sense was begging her to return inside when suddenly, a strong arm caught her about the waist and drew her close. Comfort and solace were in one embrace, and she eagerly grasped back with fisted hands clenching in the material of his suit jacket.

"That damn Vicomte," Erik muttered against her temple, wishing he could give more than an awkward kiss. "How dare he defile what was one of your most amazing performances? He has no real taste for music; no, he always went to the opera only to steal your thunder and glory. And how he's manipulating you never to sing again!" His jaw was locked with his anger; she could feel the tension of it against her forehead. "I once tried to take your life away by carrying you off and denying you sunlight and the world, and he condemned it. Now he does the same and expects it to be acceptable? No! He is degrading your talent!"

Christine felt disinclined to discuss it any longer, and curling tighter against him, she softly begged instead, "Take me with you, Erik. …Please…. Take me home with you."

He was not about to argue what he wanted so much, and easy as could be, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her close as though she was his. …Why couldn't she be his? And like days never forgotten, he took her away from her life and her world and brought her into his.

The journey was being savoured as much as anything. He took his time walking between tree trunks and brush, already having traveled this path enough times not to have to grant it more than the occasional glance. No, his attention yearned to be consumed only with Christine, and yet she kept her cheek pressed to his chest, refusing to share a look or a peek into her heart. It would have proven too dangerous.

It was only as they entered the house, and he brought her through the foyer and into his living room that she lifted her head to survey the scene. Boxes littered most of the gaps of empty space between furniture, most of them opened and obviously rummaged through, and only the objects spilling from the cardboard edges reminded Christine of his home at the opera. The rest of the décor was so decidedly not Erik, screaming of too much uppity sophistication. The couch he was delicately setting her atop looked as if it had never been used, never sat upon until now, and her thought was proven by the firmness of undented cushions against her back. Only one point in the room was reminiscent of the underground house: the grand piano poised near the terrace doors with random pieces of music strewn atop its smooth surface. The corners of her lips were tugged upward into a hinted smile with the musings of her mind. For as meticulous and organized a man as Erik was, when it came to music in the fit of any sort of playing or composing spree, the vicinity of his instruments would be a disaster of manuscript pages and dozens of ink wells every few inches within reach wherever he would be working. What a reassuring vision to see the same now! It felt so much like home to her.

"Rest now, Christine," he was gently commanding, curious to her pensive contemplations but afraid to ask. "You're safe here…with me as always."

Always…. Without question, she curled up tighter onto the unyielding cushions, laying her cheek against one of the ornate pillows at the corner and watching her companion steadily all the while as fixedly as he stared back, observing every movement she made and insisting to himself that she was real.

"Forgive me for not having a room ready for you," he suddenly stammered, unusually flustered, and desperate for some task to busy himself, he rushed to the hearth and bent to light a fire, speaking more eloquently and fluidly with the distance. "All of your things are yet in your room in Paris. I was hasty with my packing and considered little more than getting to you once I knew you were alive. I could fill an upstairs room for you if you'd like, decorate it to your tastes and not the stuffiness of the previous owners. Anything you want, Christine. Name it, and I shall do it for you."

Flames were sparking to life, and their residual warmth radiated to her shape and brushed eager caresses along her skin that she closed her eyes to appreciate. "It's yet odd to me to fathom you aboveground and in the sunlight. I had always been convinced that even had I not left that final night, our future would have remained under the opera house."

"No, no," he chided gently, turning to gaze upon her unnoticed and trail his own added caresses with fire's glow upon the smooth perfection of her skin. "I would have bought you a house, a real house in the world. I could not shackle you to shadows; I didn't want to."

"But…do you like being away from the protection of the catacombs?"

"It would have been easier with you beside me," he revealed and watched her eyes flutter open and regard him with apprehension at their corners. And yet he did not recoil from conversation. "I had imagined it to exact precision in my mind. Every detail of our life together would have been simple in its complications if I had you to stand by my side and love me in spite of society's shunning."

"Society's shunning?"

"Well, of course. It could be no other way. You would sing at the opera with your adoring, masked husband in the audience every night and never caring that they stared; they'd always stare, but my eyes would only be yours. And I would have arranged for the largest, most elegant house in the city, practically toss our existence into society's face. We'd force them down together with no one to ever defeat us."

Another tentative smile was her response, far more than words could speak. "You'd have me sing, and Raoul…well, you heard him tonight. He would murder that piece of my life without a thought; he already did! All of Paris thinks I am in the grave…. Some of his intentions are genuine, but some are purely selfish. He wanted to disassociate me from my life…, but I think he's simply ashamed of it, …of me."

"Ashamed of perfection? My God, what more could he want? You are worth so much more than a single person in that room tonight. You shined like a beacon was upon you, a light beaming across your skin, and when you sang, …Christine, I don't think I've ever been prouder of you. I've seen you be the diva of the opera stage and occasionally stand up to La Carlotta and her ego, but this! You faced all of society and put your real self on display, not the persona the Vicomte has created and tried to mold you to be. You were glorious, and a part of that was a result of your bravery. I've never seen you so strong."

His praises were making a redness tint her cheeks, and she purposely kept her head low to the pillow in hopes he would not notice her furious blush. But every word permeated into her heart and thrilled her as poignantly as days past when she had strived to please an angel.

Anxiousness was in the air between them, and almost suddenly, Erik got to his feet and was hurrying to his piano. "I have something for you."

"Music?" she eagerly asked, unwilling to share how desperately she'd been missing exactly that, waking in his home to the sound of a melody echoing into her room, begging him to play for her so often that he knew she adored every time he touched a piano. Now was no different as she lifted herself a bit onto her elbows and watched him with expectant eyes. "Did you…write me something?"

His very inspiration in one beautiful body. How often had he composed simply to impress her? "Music was playing to deaf ears when you were gone. I had no taste for it. It was as if it didn't make sense to me when you weren't in the world to hear it. …When I learned that you were alive, I wrote this."

He was the portrait of a virtuoso as he sat high and poised atop the piano bench, quickly finding the music he was after amidst the mess and spreading it out for observance. Truly, he did not even need it, not when every note and chord was emblazoned in his soul. His only concern was faltering now that he was finally playing it for its muse when he'd fantasized this scene so perfectly for days. So he did not glance at her, but he did not regard written notes either. He stared fixedly ahead, seeing colors in melodies and emotions in every line as he began to play, feelings made tangible across ivory keys.

Tingling down her spine with the first few pitches, Christine listened and felt every emotion as acutely as he had when he had written it, seeping through skin and into bone with their power. _This_ was music. How had she lived months without it? When every legato line made her aware that she was alive and breathing with its motion? Unconscious tears were slipping free of blue eyes to tumble down her cheeks as his hope carried through a piano's timbre and insisted everything he'd experienced in one revelation.

As he struck the last chords and let them ring out to nothing, he insisted before even a look at her, "It isn't long. I composed it quickly between packing, and it was encumbered by my own impatience. By you…." He stole a glance at her and sighed softly. "You're crying, and I see everything I intended in your eyes. And why would I have ever wanted to compose again if I couldn't have this expression as mine?"

Brushing her tears away, she rested her head back onto her pillow and shared an unending stare with a genius. "Will you play more for me, _ange_? I…I long to hear your music."

He never hesitated, not when music always spoke volumes compared to the limitations of words. Gentle lilting melodies sang forth from the piano's hammers and crept through Christine's body, lulling her to sleep with every beautiful line. It was just too blissful to be like this, in the place she'd missed for so long, being serenaded by music that was as ethereal as heaven and certainly not meant for the scope of the living world. And all she could think as her mind drifted to dreamscape was that this was what her future was meant to be.

Erik played on even after he knew she was asleep, hoping that his music would accompany the journey of her unconscious and sing to her soul. Even after he drew the mélange of melodies to a close, he did not quit her presence. With the fire in the hearth as his ally, dancing its beams across her features, he sat in a nearby chair and watched her sleep, reading his forever in the nuances of peaceful breaths and closed, crescent-shaped lashes.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight was a stark contrast to the warm implications of flames in the hearth, and the brightness of its natural glow peering in from open curtains returned awareness to Christine as her eyes fluttered open and surveyed her surroundings. She was alone, and it seemed unusual when she could practically feel Erik's aura lingering in the room from the chair where she had no doubt he'd spent the night gazing at her. It was hardly odd or disconcerting, not when she knew he had done so before, watching her sleep and marveling over her existence in his life. She had caught him once ages ago when she had spent the night in his house. She had been looming in that place between dream and reality when she had heard the click of her bedroom door and so careful, so as not to be noticed, she had peeked out of one closed lid and had witnessed the approach of the dark silhouette to her bedside. It should have frightened her then, should have made her loath ever to return to him, but he had done nothing that meant harm, not even a touch. And she had spent the night half-awake listening to his even breaths so near and feeling strangely safe in his company. Angel to no end, even when disfigured murderer had been the more fitting appellation.

Within moments of sitting up on the cushions and smoothing back her falling hair with anxious hands, he appeared, striding gracefully into the room with an uncommon smile that made masked features seem pleasant. "Good morning," he greeted en route to draw back the curtains entirely and let creeping sunlight fully stream inside.

One unwanted thought came in with the sun's glow, and reluctant to speak it aloud, she whispered, "I should get back."

All at once, his smile fell and faded as if its presence had been imagined. "Should you? A return to the world that is swallowing you in its recesses."

"Erik," she called gently, her expression equally as somber, "of course I'd rather stay here with you, but…I can't."

"You can," he corrected, approaching her abruptly and leaning near. "You belong here with me; you know that, no matter what you think that you owe the Vicomte."

"And how long until you doubt me again?" she suddenly demanded, attempting to match his aggression even if she failed in its inception. "How long before every dream you planned for us becomes only the nightmare again where you lock me up in your cage to keep me as yours alone, until fear makes you question every word of my affection and reverts us back to the place we were months ago?"

Fire was blazing in his eyes, ignited and inspired with one vibrant conclusion. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? That's what you're doing with all of this! With your avoidance to rid yourself of the Vicomte! You want me to be the monster again and force you, to carry you off and lock you up and make the choice _you want_ for you! Because if I do, then it lessens your guilt; then you can blame me for the fact that you love me and left Raoul at the altar. You want the monster to take the choice out of your hands!" He was bending near to her as she recoiled in reply, shrinking back into the couch's cushions and refusing to admit a single word. "You foolish child!" he snapped, fisting urgent hands to refrain from giving in to his rage and clasping her, terrified he would shake sense into her before he could stop himself. "I've offered you more than that this time, and I won't be the strong one between us any longer. You showed me last night that you can be as convicted as I can and brave enough to accept your own choices. I won't beg for your love and let my desire steal it from you on my whims again. If you want me, if you _love me_, _you_ will make the choice." His addled mind recalled the Vicomte's use of the same coercion, and he quickly corrected, "This is not a manipulation, Christine, and not some cruel game to be played. This is a liberation. You need to live _your_ life as _you_ want. The Vicomte has you twisted to his wants, and I have done little better, always pushing you down my own path. No more!" Impulse restrained, he jerked away from her and stalked a fitful path to the piano, leaning his fisted hands upon its wood. "Go back to your Vicomte and decide what you want. Decide if _I_ am enough for _you_. You know what I offer; I've sought to show you as much. But I will not be tempted to fall to your ruses of avoidance. No, I'm determined _never_ to be that monster again. Go on. Quit teasing me with your presence; I don't want to see you unless you are mine."

Christine hesitated, swallowing back tears, but he was refusing even one shared look, his stance rigid with his pent-up aggression. To be his…. Could she ever be his? Stumbling to her feet, she gave him one last glance, shaking so violently all over, before she fled the house, darting out of its protective door and into sunlit woods. All she could think, spiraling through her mind, was the blatant reality that whatever she chose, lives were about to be ruined, and it would only be her fault.

* * *

Daylight passed in an unending stagnation that Christine felt sickened to endure. The same routine over again, wedding plans interspersed, every detail achieved with a dull luster to her usual shine. And this was to be her life? Millions of moments just like these, survived half-alive and yearning, _always_ yearning. Erik wanted her to make the choice when it was already made; the difficult part was following through on its details. But she put on a role for the Vicomte's sake at least and was the Christine he wanted, quiet and submissive and listening to his every word as if it meant something important all day long. If nothing else, it left her undoubting. A choice…, and she knew that it had been made long ago.

Twilight meant supper with the Comtesse as per their usual pattern, but Christine was disinclined to wait any longer. Careful not to be observed, she slid out of one of the mansion's back doors, often used for her escapes to the garden. This time a garden was not suitable enough, and she went further, following the path she'd traveled only that morning, nervous anticipation lightening every step. A choice…, and this was hers.

It had been some form of unnamed torture to keep from her all day, but Erik had been adamant and unwavering, pacing the floor when music was an unkind traitor and produced too many thoughts of her. He couldn't even look at the couch as his subconscious returned memories of her asleep atop its cushions, peaceful and so unwittingly his at the time. _His_, he was fantasizing its implications so intently that at first a knock at the door seemed certainly a hallucination. It took a second utterance of its impeding sound for him to accept it as reality, and he was anxious as he rushed to reply, afraid disappointment would sever hope at its source.

"Christine…."

She had barely passed the threshold before she was in his arms, darting into his embrace as if it meant salvation, and he did not put distance between, clutching her back and clinging to her as he had imagined.

"I'm yours; I'm yours," she was muttering against the crease of his neck. "I'm _always_ yours."

"And that is _your_ choice then?" he pushed yet never dared to release her; his entire body was shivering to feel her breath tickle the flesh just within his collar. "Yours, made freely and without manipulation, yours, that you will stand and defend even as the world aligns against us?"

"Yes, yes," she fervently declared. "But tell me that you believe me, _ange_. Promise that you won't doubt my heart."

"And what does your heart say, Christine?" His desperation was unavoidable and thickened his tone, the need to know, to hear words he had only dreamt upon her lips.

"That I love you," she complied without pause, "and if you will doubt and distrust in spoken oaths, then I have proof."

Erik was still reeling from the sound of one sentence, but his curiosity was piqued as she drew away and slipped her hand into the pocket of her gown. Held up to his inspection was the letter she'd written four months before, the one he had brought with his appearance, and with it was another scrap, the missing piece that had been torn free, set in place now to weave its severed, jagged edge.

"My words in my own hand," she told him. "I found the rest of it in Raoul's desk. He couldn't get rid of it; maybe it reminded him why he did what he felt he must. Read the rest of the letter, Erik. It was meant to be yours."

Brow lined beneath the mask's concealment, he took the letter into his shaking hands and read her words aloud. " 'I loved you and you condemned me…. Condemned to be alone with a bleeding heart. I beg of you to make this torment stop. Hatred is my enemy, for it is as demanding and possessive as love. I cannot separate one from the other, and I cannot truly hate what I love so much. I want you still; I will always want you. Come back for me, _ange_. Repair the heart you destroyed. I will be dead inside until you do. What heart can live without its beat? I love you, Erik. I should have said so and gave my choice meaning. I'll say it now. I love you…. Come for me.'"

Every sentence pierced his heart with its sincerity, and as he stared at it and let her elegant cursive become a blended mass of revelations, she filled in the rest that wasn't there. "I waited for you. I was so sure that you'd eventually come for me, but you never did."

"I thought you were dead," he distantly declared.

"Yes, but I didn't know that. I felt sure it meant that you didn't want me." She was desperate to capture his attention when secrets on a page were all he'd see, and with little pause to consider, she brought her hand to his mask and lifted its interfering presence away. "I love you, Erik," she repeated to astounded scars and their variations.

"And do you realize what you say?" There was an edge of urgency in his voice that inspired her trepidation as he dangled a letter between them. "You begged me to come for you, to take you away, the same things I condemned myself for. I wanted to be more than that for you, to give you more, and you would have taken me as I was, monster, murderer, every sin upon my soul. You wanted me…. Christine, this is a monster before you, but he loves you more than any ordinary man ever could and needs you so intensely that he will die again without you. …And does that please you?"

She nodded with resolution, and his stare was riveted to the motion of dark curls, only able to consider their graceful sway and the fact that if he wanted to, he could reach out and touch them as if he had the right to do so. Her eyes were practically goading him to it, and with a new sense of hesitation, he indulged himself and gently touched the silk of those spun curls, weaving his fingers into their soft mass.

"Tell me what you want, Christine," he encouraged, desperate not to let her see how deeply affected he was by such an innocent touch. For the first time, it was truly his; he wasn't having to ask permission or to consider the guilt and fiancé waiting in the wings. This wouldn't be taken away from him again.

"What I want…," she repeated skeptically, too focused on the fervency of his stare to conceive of much else.

"I laid a future at your feet last night," he continued, thrilling to know that he wore no mask and it didn't matter to either of them. "I gave you my intended concept of our life together, and you were so careful not to say a word about its details. So I pose it to you. Tell me what you envision our future to be. Anything you want I will give you."

"I want you," she stated, simple as that.

"And to sing?"

"To sing," she breathed amidst an undeniable smile. "Yes, to sing…and the music, but you would have given me such things without a request."

"And…," he hesitated a breath, tentative yet in his proposal, "…marriage, Christine?" As quickly as he suggested it, he hastily added, "I haven't hauled a wedding gown up from the catacombs with the intention of forcing it upon you again. It will not be the same. You thought I wanted you as a prisoner, to love me as I saw fit, and maybe at that time, you were right. I couldn't have just loved you and let you love me back. But now…you are the other half of myself. I've no doubt that such sentiments exist as truth. I want to love you as such. …I won't force it upon you." It felt essential to repeat such an imperative point, and the hand still twined in her hair trembled with his wariness as he scanned the play of emotions upon her face for an answer.

"I was to marry the Vicomte in two days," she softly replied, "and it never felt right. He tried to please me, but it could only be empty when affection was one-sided. You tried the same once. You were so desperate to keep me that you wanted to love for the both of us."

"This isn't the same."

"No, it's not. You've put it before me and asked for my love instead of taking it. And if it is my choice now with an answer to be freely declared, then I _choose_ to marry you."

That damaged face with its resilient scars looked the closest to beautiful that she'd ever seen it as he smiled with adoration, trailing mismatched eyes over her features, still afraid to touch more than her hair and have it be acceptable. "A marriage and a future freely chosen, …and I leave the rest up to you as well."

"The rest…." She already had an idea to what he was referring. The rest…. And as his hand tightened its grip in her hair, she had no doubt that she was right.

"I would never force that upon you either, not even the first time that marriage was our option. Back under the opera house, marriage meant companionship. I just wanted you to stay. Anything else, …well, it wasn't intended, and you were still so unsure and even afraid of me that I couldn't rationalize ever expecting more than idle caresses that hopefully one day would bear no suspicion in their background or worry of disgust. But you are no longer that girl, Christine. You've allowed my kiss and touch and shown no disgust in return. And…marriage can just mean companionship if you want; it need not be anything else if desire will frighten you away."

She was thoughtful over his words, keeping her trepidation in the forefront and never denied, and still carrying her uncertainty in her hands, she said, "You've always treated me like porcelain a step away from breaking in your hands. Whenever desire would appear between us, you were as trepid as I was, and you let me run rather than assuage my fears with answers. I was always terrified that it would consume me completely and I'd never be able to be myself again, and I think you were equally as afraid but unwilling to tell me."

"I've never felt anything as I feel for you," he admitted plainly, toying with her curls. "I can barely control it; how could I keep it from frightening you if I gave in?"

"I'm not going to be afraid anymore," she decided even if the tremor in her voice spoke otherwise. "I won't run, and I won't break. But you cannot run from it either. I want to feel desire, yours and mine, and know that it won't steal my soul with it. Show me, Erik. …Will you?" Under her own persuasive cajoling, she leaned close to him, always the victim of his apprehensive stare, and dared to press two delicate kisses to the misshapen arch of his upper lip, whispering again in the fraction of air between, "…Will you?"

He couldn't refuse her, not as every bit of him gave a reaction, violent shivers, shudders of need, everything he'd ever tried to cling to in a fist and keep within his grasp, contained and only peeking out in fragments when it burned him inside. A letter of admission joined a mask on the floor, unneeded and discarded as he collected her into his eager arms, dragging her willingly to his chest and pressing her close. "I would give you everything," he was gasping, setting timid kisses to her temple and brow. "Everything, Christine. Everything I am and everything I'll be."

"Everything I am," she agreed and encircled him in her arms, molding her body close and fitting it to his shapes. "Everything is yours, _ange_."

As he found her lips with his, she anticipated the contact, tilting her face upward and meeting his motion as his mouth inspired sensation that traveled through her and settled with an empty ache at her center. It was as terrifying as it was wanted, and when once she would have broken away and fled, she forced herself to remain and respond, to allow the waves of need to overcome her.

Gentle was no longer a consideration as evaporated as constraint, and he did not avoid impulse's pull, parting her lips with his anticipating tongue to taste her. He shuddered at her sweetness and burned to feel an equaled reaction travel her limbs, her body arching closer, firmer to his, wanting to be an inseparable whole and not an incomplete half.

Christine felt comprehension fade in and out of her grasp, lost for a moment of pure passion and return to encourage more and urge her to touch him. It took a couple of attempts beneath such sense-stealing power to convince her hand to loosen its stable grip upon his shoulder and seek his scars, its compass briefly spinning without direction until she could cup his cheek. These scars were hers, and they grounded her in reality and whispered without voice that this was her Erik and beneath every confidence, he was as untouched as she was and as unavoidably timid.

One kiss, and he drew back to search her eyes and their hazy languidness, but blue depths showed no rising terror, no regrets, nothing to unravel the web of need encompassing eager hearts. How he savoured that sight! Engraining it into the eye of memory, it would be his for all of eternity, the woman he'd loved forever loving and wanting him in return, holding his disfigured cheek in her palm as if it meant only skin and bones. He wanted to cry as intensely as he wanted to kiss her again!

"Come on," he bid, voice thick with wanting and emotion, and capturing her hand in his, he led her with him up the staircase at the front of the foyer, watching her at every moment.

"Why are you so surprised?" she inquired, reading it vividly across his unconcealed features.

"You are not the same girl I once knew," Erik told her as he guided her through the doorway of what he loosely-termed his bedroom. "You were such an innocent child always on the verge of doubting every proof of your own soul. Now…you're so strong, Christine. It amazes me."

She did not deny his words; she only said, "Wisdom comes from having your heart broken and believing you'd never breathe again. The pain of loss…. I had to be strong to endure believing I'd never have this again, you looking at me with such love in your eyes. I had to be strong to marry someone else and only have the love in _his_ eyes as a meager compensation."

"His eyes," Erik restated it solemnly, unwilling to show her the true bitterness such a bleak reality brought to life. Almost…. Drawing her into the center of the room, he suddenly pulled her close again, rubbing claiming hands up and down her back and being seared with the natural heat of her flesh.

Even as she conceded, her curious gaze was wandering the corners of the room. More boxes and little of Erik. The only detail she could discern as his was the suit laid out across a chair, dark as he liked when the color palette of this master bedroom was disturbingly bright. She was sure that come daylight when the sun would filter in, it would be positively blinding in its every hue.

"What are you thinking?" he asked with an undeniable rush of amusement to witness her revealing smile.

"Just that after we're married, I must insist upon a new residency."

"As if I'd want to live an estate away from your jilted fiancé's aunt!" he teased back, oddly comfortable in her presence. For the first time, teasing felt natural and _normal_, and when her smile only beamed, he savoured its every nuance.

"Not just that, but…well, the underground house was more ours than this place ever could be."

"Ours…," he breathed in awe before he could nod agreement. "Yes, it was _ours_, and I promise to give you a home in the sunlight that is equally so. Every aspect will be fitting to _our_ tastes. Does that please you?"

"Very much. But you forget that Paris thinks I'm dead," Christine reminded, lifting impatient hand to outline the features of his face.

Eyes closing to savour every innocent caress, he concluded, "There are other opera houses in the world. Paris isn't the only capitol for the arts. We'll find someplace better." Her fingertips were grazing the space left vacant for a nose, and he abruptly arched his face upward to lay kisses to her gentle hand. "You're trembling, Christine," he revealed what she did not say. "Are you afraid to touch me?"

"I don't want to hurt you," she insisted, yet tentative as her fingers resumed their path and brushed stark formations of exposed bone. "Does my touch cause you pain, Erik?"

"No, no, not pain," he muttered, closing his lids again to concentrate on soft fingertips against dead flesh. "I've never been touched this way before. Not even my own hands have touched my face if it could be avoided, never gentle, never with such caring and longing attached. You touch me as if you are aching to do so."

"But I am," she said without hesitation, and leaning closer, she dared to transform a touch of fingers into a touch of lips, kissing a path along those tattered features and feeling his flesh quiver beneath her ministrations and a muffled cry of disbelief as it vibrated in his lungs. She was watching him carefully as she continued, noting that his eyelids were yet screwed shut and refusing to regard the scene, and as her lips gently grazed the space above his ear, she bid, "Open your eyes, my Erik. Don't be lost in a dream; this is real."

It was as if she had read his fear, and he was reluctant to comply, knowing how quickly dreams flitted away from those who yearned the most. But she was adamant to tempt him, fitting her mouth against his, a hinted kiss first before she grew bold and gave it meaning. No doubts, she had not a single one, and she was determined that he wouldn't either as she molded her lips to his. No, no, this was hers, and she was marking it as such as she dared to taste him this time with the tingling tip of her tongue, thrilling to be abruptly collected in firm arms and held closer and flush to the length of his body, to genuinely feel the true extent of his desire, unhindered and never dimmed back to a smolder.

"You mean to outdo every dream I've ever had, don't you?" he teased in the merest gap between longing lips as he leaned close enough to press his forehead to hers. His eyes were fluttering open, passion displayed in his mismatched depths. "To prove in your existence and that no dream could ever be so feverishly constructed? You know that I've dreamt of this so often that it feels like fantasy is now bleeding into my reality. Isn't that right, Christine? But tell me, _ange_, have _you_ ever dreamt the same? In all of this time, was I the dream you harbored and yet suffered as a nightmare to believe it would never come true?"

"It's coming true now," she insisted back, her hand tracing scars again. "And I refuse to recall the emptiness in between and doubt reality now that I am touching it with my fingertips."

"But I was haunted." Erik's soft admission caused a shiver down her spine; haunted by ghosts…, _her_ ghost. It was as disconcerting as being told that she was believed dead. "It was truly the nearest to insanity that I've ever been, and I would have embraced it fully if it meant I wouldn't be alone and without you. A ghost is a disappointment, worse than a dead body even, because it calls to mind what one can't have with such vivid realism that it is only intangibility that gives its true definition away. I would touch you, and you wouldn't be there, unsubstantial, cold, not this warm, breathing, _living_ body I now hold. …I was so certain that I'd only ever have ghosts as mine."

The tears in her eyes were created by _his_ pain, and she suddenly wrapped both arms about him and burrowed her head against his neck, clutching tight enough to feel his heartbeat as an echo of her own. "I'm yours," she breathed as she had earlier. "And I will be yours in life and death and on every plane of existence. I love you too much to ever leave you alone."

His hands were brushing idly through her curls, sliding in and out of their mass to tease the line of her back, and he was pleased with himself to feel her shiver and arch closer into him. His, yes, she was his…_finally_. "Christine," he whispered as he set random kisses to her brow, "do you desire me?"

She was sure that he already knew his own answer as she quivered eagerly against him, but she indulged his request and replied, "I desire you, Erik."

His roaming hands were within the curtain of her locks again, and his quaking fingers found the clasps of her gown. Diligently from the nape of her neck to her waist, he unhooked every one, impatient for material to part and give way to the gloriousness beneath.

Christine remained frozen in her place, feeling the tug and release of every clasp, and trepidation only rose as the last one succumbed and the gown was being drawn free of her body. Their embrace had to be broken for his intentions, and she stared with eyes that could not halt their widening, for the first time feeling utterly vulnerable in only her underclothes. A ravenous gaze swept the length of her, and she was the victim to the sheer intensity he could exude in a look alone, the power of it practically sewn into his aura, a threat but also an omnipotence. It was his Opera Ghost persona, the phantom they called him, and it often surpassed the real surreptitious uncertainty of the man behind it. He wanted to seem in control. But she knew better, and it made her calm and smile.

"What is that look?" he demanded, trying to be coherent when his eyes were yet feasting on the vision of her in white silk with much more pale skin exposed than he had ever seen before.

But she did not dare tell him that she knew of his apprehension. She just held his eye resolutely and reached for the ties of her corset, unraveling its binding with suddenly steady fingers. It fell away with a soft plop against the carpet, and without hesitation, she began to discard the rest a piece at a time, refusing modesty to stifle her or appear as more than a faint pink blush upon the vast expanse of flesh coming into view. She halted when all that remained was a thin chemise that just barely grazed the top of her thigh and trembled in spite of her bravado, watching him burn without reservation as fiery eyes traced the lengths of her legs and lingered at every curve and joint.

"Why did you stop?" His voice was thick and hoarse, giving away that need so poignantly as it skittered across her skin, and words evaded her, nothing but a blush to be her answer. With a fond smile that upturned the corners of misshapen lips, he posed, "Are you shy?"

"As shy as you are nervous," she insisted back with the slightest waver as her betrayer. "Argue it if you'd like, but I know you well, _ange_."

Any banter grew tainted with an odd severity she had not expected, and as he solemnly drew off his jacket and reached for the buttons of his shirt cuffs, he softly said, "I have ample reason for hesitations. …There's something I've never told you, Christine. I…. Well, I never thought it would need to be considered when this situation seemed a far-fetched fantasy. And now…perhaps showing you would be best."

Buttons undone, he jerked his sleeves up and revealed the white skin of his arms, studying her carefully all the while. Scars, faded but obvious along each inner wrist. It was unneeded to say what they meant.

"Why…why did you do that to yourself?" she demanded, overcome in an air of horror that she had not known since the days she'd learned his last secret built in scars.

Exhaling a harsh breath that deflated his usual poised posture, he was uncertain of the answer himself at first, pondering over the memories before forming an intelligible conclusion. "I've been treated viciously and violently all of my life; pain was never the issue or the sense of being unwanted and undeserving to live. I was accustomed to degradation and shame. No, I did this…out of guilt."

Christine had edged close to him again, and catching his extended arms in her hands, she studied the damage. It would have been done brutally, deep cuts to leave this sort of lingering evidence. "Guilt…."

"I am not emotionless for the lives I've taken," he told her, watching her dark head with never a glimpse at his own marks. "It may seem simple for someone like me to end a life. I have justification for the pain I've endured as humanity's monster. But…I remember each and every person that I've sinned against; most were victims of my rash need to play a god on this level of existence, to have power to make up for the injustices done to me and make them suffer instead. I actually convinced myself that it was my right to decide life and death because of my face. Ridiculous, isn't it? No human being should have the privilege of omnipotence at his fingertips. Guilt for my inflicted horrors made me long for death, but suicide is a damning offense, more so than murder. It takes away God's right to condemn to the hellfire by already condemning oneself. It is choosing eternal agony before it is chosen for you." Studying the rise and fall of stirring curls, he told her, "It was an agony when I believed in the lie and considered you had done the same. You never deserved condemnation, especially for loving me. My saving grace was the conviction that I would meet you there someday, somewhere in the hellfire. Eternal suffering seemed the only way I'd ever be able to have you."

Her fingertip was tracing the lines, unable to fully comprehend the reality when the skin before her was Erik's, and with a furrow that appeared to mar her brow and tattle the depth of her thoughts, she asked, "How were you saved?"

"Nadir, my Persian friend…, friend a loosely-defined term at present. He foolishly believed it best to help the Vicomte trick me, and that is only his most recent offense on our supposed friendship. Knowing my past…, he was afraid I would return to such masochistic behavior when I was told that you were gone and barely left me alone. He never saw that I had learned my lesson and wouldn't follow that route again."

"But…did you ever consider it at all?" Gentle as could be, Christine lifted one wrist to her lips and claimed its condemning scar with a kiss.

Half-distracted by her motions, he almost could not find the ability to speak, shivering at the contact of soft, warm lips making something beautiful out of a tragedy. "I…I won't lie to you. Yes, I considered it against better judgment. To find you sooner on that plane of damnation…. But I had a ghost to keep me company and sing in my ear, and I couldn't abandon her yet. It's positively absurd, but my own hallucinating mind was my salvation. …Oh God, Christine what are you doing to me?"

Her lips curved into a tempting grin even as her tongue was delicately trailing the sensitive flesh of his inner wrist, innocence falling to the backdrop when his eyes showed such fire in return. "I'm making you grateful that suicide was the one thing you ever failed at in your lifetime. Just the idea…, the concept of never having known you…. Erik, you changed my life. I would have always felt your loss without ever knowing why, half a person wandering the world alone."

"That was my existence before you." His hand caught her wrist this time, clutching it captive, and he guided it to his misshapen lips, brushing thankful kisses to perfection instead of damage. As she held her breath within her lungs, he imitated her teasing game and let his tongue trail the undisturbed threads of her veins, life beating in a flustered pulse against him. "Christine," he breathed against her skin, "I want you so much that it is consuming me, _ange_."

Her lids were heavy with his promises in their husky letters, and he watched her succumb, laying idle kisses along her inner arm to the soft crook of her elbow and knowing she was as overcome as he was with the power of the need.

Eager hands were reaching for the hem of her chemise, and she was surprised at how stable his grip was, confident and determined when she still quivered all over. Quiver became a shake as the silk was guided up and over her head, each inch tickling her skin on its ascent and inevitable disappearance; it abandoned her and left her entirely exposed to feverish eyes that raked intangible caresses up and down along every nuance and so much pale, flawless flesh meant for only him to know.

Before intelligible speech could return to his lips, he was guiding an impatient hand from the rounded shape of one shoulder across the blank expanse of her chest and lower until he could barely graze one breast with tingling fingertips. A whimper slid free from her lips with the jolt that raced down limbs inspired by that one solitary caress. Such overwhelming sensation! And from only a single touch! It almost frightened her to consider the intensity more would incite, and yet she equally had no desire to ask him to cease, not when his adoration seared her to her inner bones with its flames.

"Why do I deserve the right to touch you with these blood-stained hands?" he was muttering more to himself, but even with such a musing, he did not possess the ability to sever contact. His fingers were daring to trail the hardened peak of her breast, and as her contained whimpers swelled to a definite cry, he felt possessed by the responding throb his body gave, like an answer to an echo. Tentative was lost as his hand cupped the full weight with her eager nipple making its presence distinct and urgent against his palm.

Touch wasn't enough; for the first time, he was desperate to have more than that, and watching her at every motion so that her responses could become his own, he bent and lay gentle kisses along the side of her throat, burrowing wanting even if misshapen lips against skin so soft and sensitive that she went rigid with surprise and nervously fisted a terrified hand in his hair.

Hovering an inch from yearning skin, he whispered with a breath that tickled its path along her goosebump-covered flesh, "And if my hands have no right to a touch, then my lips are far more undeserving yet. They're ugly and malformed, and yet they are kissing perfection as if they could be worthy."

Arguments to be posed were flitting on her tongue, but she could barely sift through their phrases and make sense out of incomprehension. Words, but words were lackluster when his body was so near to her own that it was tempting her to forget everything but this moment in the long stitches of time. Forget words even, or so she decided, and the hand she had tangled in his hair answered for her, guiding those malformed lips back to the expectant crease of her throat as an urgent necessity. Complying with a groan, he ravished that spot with kiss after kiss, never enough, never another doubt. Doubt was inconsequential when she was arching so fitfully into him and losing sounds of her delight that were memorized by his musician's ear like an audible memory to be replayed at will.

Patience had never been a strong point of his, and it was minimally intact when she was bare and pressed to him as if searching for skin with his clothing yet as an obstacle in between. In mere minutes, patience dwindled, and with an abruptness that made her head reel and spin, he swept her body into demanding arms and carried her to the awaiting bed.

"Still shy?" he teased even if the hoarseness in his voice etched it out provocatively instead.

"No, …no," she muttered and missed his nearness as he delicately rested her upon the mattress, laying her amidst bright dyes. Her mind formed its own teasing replies about the very idea of Erik sleeping in such a bed, but they were never spoken by a tongue-tied mouth. How could speech matter when her eyes were being riveted to his elegant, long fingers and their motion with each button of his shirt that they freed? One, another, another, and her eager gaze fixed on the white skin being revealed, paler than hers in its tones, almost flawless, …almost.

"More scars…," she managed to state, soft and yet so very heavy in its insinuation, and scooting on her knees to the edge of the bed, she let her fingertips find each and every one even as he was still working to remove his shirt, overcome far too much with her compassion. She did not need to ask for an explanation to know the source of such brutality; mankind was just that cruel. And she was sure that even though these were the wounds to eventually scar, there had been others, too, less severe, and bruises that had faded as if they had never existed. Such injustice in a world over-laden with bitter reality, and it certainly made an old illusion of an angel with white wings seem preferred, a dream of perfection when so many flaws were the actuality.

Erik just watched her with awed adoration, touching him without hesitation and fingers that were adamant in every trek across random scars. He had to wonder if she had any idea how honest his earlier statements had been and how unworthy of her love he truly felt. Perfection kneeling before him, _touching him_, loving him as if he mattered in the world he'd always abhorred. He could want her to the depths of his being, and yet he knew he'd always feel undeserving.

"Christine…." His hands were unable to keep still and weaved in and out of her hair, and the only thought making sense in his desire-filled mind was that he loved her. Dear God, how he loved her!

Patience was still sought and yet unfound, and Erik finally gave up trying as hands coiled in her hair emerged to catch her shoulders and guide her back, his flashing eyes insisting what he wanted. And she did not recall to be shy or trepid, not as she watched him finish disrobing with hazy eyes, curling back onto the mattress and awaiting as if he brought her destiny with him. Her innocent eyes were studying his body as intently as he still regarded hers at every opportunity, and as she observed every sculpted detail and every inch of white skin, she grew as impatient as he was, yearning only to know his skin against hers.

With a silent question always in the background, Erik laid beside her on the bed, and he could not contain a sincere smile as she immediately wrapped longing arms around him and pulled him close to her, content to feel the blissful contact of flesh.

His hands were making idle paths over any inch, up and down the shapes of her arms, along the features of her face, tracing her spine, and as he thrilled himself with her warmth and tangibility, he dared to press his hardness more firmly against the soft skin of her abdomen, surprised that even though she felt its need, she did not draw away. No, he glimpsed not even an inkling of fear when he had been so certain that that would be all she would know.

Christine was too intrigued to be afraid, the breath catching in her throat at skin, so much skin against her own. One touch was always overwhelming when it was granted by Erik's hands, a million at once were an exquisite sort of torture. It was touching the ethereal existence of a star and learning the exhilaration of its beams through every facet and deep enough to brand bones with its engraving to insist possession. Focus was shifting in and out, and as it was snared by the soft moan of delight that escaped him, she arched her hips closer to him, tempting and bold when his manhood gave a desperate pulsation in reply. And why then would she succumb to the pull of modesty when this felt so necessary, when in another life and another time, she would have run head-first and was this time choosing to fall heart-first. Running had lost her precious moments of truly _living_; she would never follow that mistake again.

"Please, Erik," she whispered when the only hesitation was yet his. Arching against him again to illicit another uninhibited moan, she insisted adamantly, "Don't stop."

Sense was already far too overcome as he felt himself burning along every contact with a searing flame, and never separating even an inch, he shifted atop her, careful, so careful with her. The backs of his fingers were grazing idle caresses along her cheek, keeping her yearning stare captive in his so he could marvel over everything she felt.

His heart begged him to be gentle, but as he felt her wetness, felt how much she desired _him_, he couldn't deny impulse as it ached to be buried within her. In a swift and determined thrust, he entered her, but the thrill was torn in two with her sharp cry as her muscles tense and fingertips flexed rigid against his shoulder blades.

"Forgive me," he immediately begged in a hoarse whisper, setting consoling kisses to the brow of her ducked head. "Please, dear God, Christine, forgive me for hurting you, but…_ange_, you are so wet…. I had to be inside of you." More kisses were being pressed along her hairline and into a mass of disheveled curls, and delirious with the need to continue, he restrained movement and desperately sought to keep full attention anywhere but on the consuming sensation of her wetness surrounding him. "Christine," he breathed her name like a reverent adoration, "I never knew it would feel this way…." He was teasing her with the words, tempting her with each utterance. "I'm _yours_, yours forever now. Won't you look at me? …I may not be the most handsome prize, but…."

That did it, and he nearly smiled even in the midst of every other twisting need when she immediately lifted her head, twining her arms tighter about him, and pressed kiss after kiss to his lips and scars as if to prove him wrong with every sweet token.

"You are mine," she insisted as she nuzzled her cheek against his damaged one, "and to me, you are beautiful." As she spoke, she was the one to shift her hips closer to him, gasping in a breath with the surprising swell of sensation that overcame lingering pain; it was an afterthought and only faded further from consideration as he gave in and slowly began to move.

"Christine," he bid in a moan, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," she assured back, rising and sinking to meet his every thrust as shivers raced her skin with the power of her wanting. She pressed her lips in an infinite kiss against his cheek, and it muffled the soft cries that tried to break loose and words that made no sense to her clouded mind, pleadings never to stop, never to let go, …requests for more.

It was all too fleeting, something she was desperate to clasp forever in her hands and yet evaded her as suddenly as it started. Her body was as much her enemy as her ecstasy, letting the passion build when she would have rather hovered in the state in between and savoured it longer. But as he kept her firmly clutched to his body, touching at every inch possible, she felt the overwhelming crescendo take her away and lost fervent cries of his name against the side of his throat with a pleasure so intense that she shuddered and shivered even after its surging.

Erik wanted to speak endearments and praises, to dote on the beauty of her and the intoxication of knowing he'd pleased her, but he was becoming a victim himself, driven so close by her climax that he could not suppress the ache any longer. Finding her willing lips with an urgent kiss, he surrendered and allowed the explosion of ecstasy to steal him in its delirium.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, sharing her breath between lips as comprehension crept in and out of notice, "can this be ours forever? No more doubts or hearts struggling to deny their rightful place. This is where we belong…together as _one_ heart."

She just nodded and closed that mediocre gap to kiss him again, tasting him upon an eager tongue that begged for more for her. She never wanted this to end. No, never to end, never to consider the world outside again. She ignored the sounds of night that filtered in through the ajar windows, the chirping crickets and deceptive calm to unfolding darkness. She would have sealed it out if she could, buried them in this room as they had once been buried beneath the opera house so far away from life as if their world was impenetrable.

And she was determined not to remember or let him recall as she stole words in kisses and urged him to start again. But the world waited just beyond their haven in an awkward suspension, waited to creep in and return to its spin. It was inevitable, and yet she was determined to stave it off as long as possible and live in a dream that was a step away from being hers.


	8. Chapter 8

Since I was able to finish all of my editing, I am posting the last 3 chapters of this story for your enjoyment. I decided not to make everybody wait in suspense for the outcome! I am just so very appreciative to everybody who has taken the time to read. Thank you so much! :)

* * *

A step away…, a step Christine knew she had to take. As the first rays of sunlight were dancing over the horizon, she carefully disentangled entwined limbs from Erik's sleeping form, unable to keep herself from staring at that mangled face and how the warm welcome of daylight played along its malformations and illuminated the odd beauty of its abnormalities. A corpse at rest, and all she could consider was breathing life back into him. The tinged smile upon her lips was reminiscing over the wonder of watching an ecstasy that could only mean life overcome those skeleton features more than once with night to knit dreamscapes about them. One night when she was in pursuit of a million more; that very thought renewed her adamancy as she quickly drew on her clothes.

Silent as could be, she leaned over his sleeping face and breathed without sound, "I love you." It was her vow, and hidden in its simplicity was equally a promise of the forever she was determined to gain them.

It was a task, weighing heavily upon shoulders that only longed to be light and weightless with every dreaded step back to the de Chagny mansion. The unease was so thick hanging about her shape, and as she entered the terrace doors that led into the study, it dropped upon her and suffocated every illusion with cruel reality.

"Where were you?"

Raoul's voice shook her off her base for a long, guilt-ridden breath that saw visions flash in her memory of Erik and the love in his eyes, of his body over hers, claiming hers, every sin she now carried in her hands. That crack in her veneer was so hastily patched that she prayed the Vicomte never saw it from his arresting placement, sitting arrogant and convicted on the edge of the couch as if he'd been waiting simply to catch her entrance. No. Guilt would not be hers.

"Out for a walk in the garden," she lied with skill, the actress at her best, so accomplished that her mind designed that very scenario and made it half-real.

"All night?" He posed the question she knew would carry no valid explanation, and though she was silent, she wasn't breaking as he had expected. She was uncommonly defiant, and it prompted him to toss forward the one point that had to rattle her. "He's here, isn't he?"

Christine remained stoic even as the breath collapsed her lungs and escaped as a sigh. Lying would prove pointless as she well knew, and so without a single waver, she replied somber, "Yes, he is."

"And…you were with him…."

The conclusion had likely already been assumed, probably dwelled upon through every dark hour, but Christine refused to consider the depth of a betrayal and again let truth speak clear. "Yes, I was with him."

It was the vastness of his pain that surprised her. She hadn't expected it, half-sure that in a way he had anticipated this very outcome in the parts of his mind that knew she didn't love him. But what was facing her was an undeniable anguish as he demanded with defeat, "How could you? …And how long has he been lolling about, spying on us and seeking the exact manner in which to go about usurping my life?"

"You convinced him I was dead." She wasn't above accusing him; he could hurt for losing her, but when she thought of why and Erik suffering the same, it kept her unmoved. "You arranged all of that specifically for _him_, to destroy him and make sure he never came after me. Your admission of what you did has always been shrouded in your argument that it was done for my protection. But this wasn't for me at all. This was to _keep me_ and was just as horrific as Erik carrying me off like a rag doll."

"And yet you've forgiven him for that," Raoul spat as he rose and dared to close the distance between them, running his gaze across her every detail as if she had been changed and transformed, contaminated somewhere deep inside. "Why are my own efforts to hold your love condemned? Is it because I am not a deformed murderer playing on your sympathy?"

"Sympathy is not what I feel for him," she stated firmly, never cowering under the burden of the Vicomte's anger. "I love him; I've _always_ loved him. You know that. You knew it before I even did, before I could ever admit it to myself, so you sought to depict him as a monster and build me something to be terrified of and hate. …You loved me, genuinely so, and I'm sorry for that. …I'm sorry that I could never love you back."

That was it, vindication for a choice made four months before, and as she accepted the pull of her conviction and strode past his slouched shape, she expected it to be over and felt a swell of anticipation, considering that she would collect her things and be gone within the hour, back to Erik, maybe even before he awoke.

"You may not love me," Raoul called after her, "but you're going to marry me anyway."

Halting numb in her steps, she reluctantly turned back, only inches from the study doorway and freedom. "No, Raoul, I'm not. …I'm going to marry him."

"He'll be dead before he ever makes it to the altar."

Christine huffed her annoyance, staring fixedly at his back as he slowly regained his full posture. "And shall we return to the last denouement with both of you ready to duel to the death over me? I chose him then, and I choose him now which leaves you no reason to wage war."

"Reason? I have quite the reason," he coldly retorted, still avoiding a look at her. "You will _not_ make me a fool before the entire country. We are getting married tomorrow as planned; I will _not_ carry the ridicule of being left at the altar for a disfigured freak and murderer."

"Forge a death," she suggested bitterly. "You are quite versed in such affairs. A demise for yourself…or me. I don't much care. Tell them that your darling fiancée took her life…_again_."

"Oh, no, no, as if I would make it so easy for you to run off with your deformed lover!"

"What do you mean?" This was not a new idea or plot in formation; she had a definite feeling that he had had this conspired to precision all along, and as he finally met her eye and she glimpsed the opposition that had overtaken pain, she knew she was right.

"I mean," he replied sharply, "that I can make threats as well as he can, only I will be better at carrying them through. All of Paris believes you are dead. It wouldn't take much for me to go there and insist that _he_ devised the entire scheme and made _me_ believe that you were dead so that he could once again kidnap you. He is a wanted man in Paris, you realize; the gendarme would be quite grateful to have a direction and yet another purpose to pursue him. And with the funding and aid of the Vicomte de Chagny in hopes of finding his abducted fiancée, it wouldn't be an impossible feat this time."

"You can't," she argued without showing even a fraction of her rising trepidation. "And if you tried, I would simply insist that I want to be with Erik. They cannot force a willing woman from what she freely chooses."

"The gendarme would never believe that a beautiful woman would _freely_ choose a disfigured murderer. They'll believe he's tricked you, and they'll _kill him_ without question." Raoul was as undeterred as she was, but he was now glimpsing the slight shake of her hands before she fisted them and tightened the joints of betraying fingers. "You know that there is no exaggeration to my words, Christine. If I send the gendarme after him, they will shoot first before they'll ever let him get away again. Go on then. Run off and tell him of my threats, but I guarantee that I will see him dead before I am ever hurt by his ropes and tricks."

She was swaying on her feet with the violent quivering her body had taken to suffering. And all she could think in a horror-stricken mind was that it had been warm in Erik's bed. …Why had she ever left? "No," she said even if the tremble in her voice revealed her doubt. "No, I will _not_ marry you, and Erik will kill you before you ever try to force me."

"After all I've done for you, you would truly destroy your future for him? Inevitably, you're going to see that I'm offering you everything. Don't make our marriage be the forced manipulation he failed at conjuring the first time. It doesn't have to be a death sentence." And as his eyes softened their glare, he insisted sincerely, "…I love you, Christine."

It stung her so brutally because she knew it was true.

"Break his heart," the Vicomte ordered, regaining his cold control, "or watch it bleed itself dry. What happens is in your hands now, but are you truly so inclined to take chance with his life? If you claim to love him, then I know the difficulty in that path; I _lived it_ once before. Loving you and yet wittingly putting you into danger with the fear of losing you at the next shift of plot…. It was a dreadful weight to bear, and then to consider the guilt I would have known if something had happened to you…. Is that what you want, Christine? Because you will endure the terror for your remaining days, the terror of losing him at any moment. Because I can guarantee that if you abandon our wedding, I will do everything I must to find you, even if that means scourging the entire face of the earth. There is nowhere you can go that you would be safe."

"Why?" she suddenly demanded, fighting back the tears that were threatening more and more with every sentence. "Why won't you just let me go?"

"Did _he_ not play the same angle? And he won your heart in doing so." He was shaking his head, and the sneer he gave made her consider him truly ugly. The most handsome, most coveted man in the country and all she could see when she looked at him was an abhorrent villain. "I am no fool," he went on. "I don't anticipate gaining your love this way, but I will choose enemy before unrequited lover, especially when your ignorance is now threatening my reputation as well. All this time in society, and have you not noticed how important such things are? I made a new, fictitious girl to love and wed because of it, killed the parts of you that would have proved shaming to my family name and gave you the prestige you needed to be accepted. I am not willing to lose that so completely. Even if the girl I created never truly existed, you gave her life and played the role to perfection. I expect nothing less at our wedding tomorrow."

"Stop saying that," she snapped at him, hating the very words.

"Christine, finally strong and convicted in what she wants," he taunted. "But you can't destroy lives built to selfishly satisfy your heart; I won't let you and especially not with _him_."

"But…I love him…," she whispered, and despite resolve, the tears were pooling in the corners of her eyes.

"If that's true, then you'll choose to save him instead of being the sole cause and reason for his death. Love means sacrifice, Christine; Lord knows I've made enough for you." Pain was flickering through anger, and he quickly forced cold apathy back into place and glared at her. "You can be quite convincing when you choose to be. Play the actress. Convince him that you're through with him, and do it well. Intelligently, I will not be without armed guards until our wedding, so if he dares try anything, he will be dead. Simple as that. Dead for your love. It is so very reminiscent, isn't it? Four months ago that would have been my part. It's amazing how time changes things and makes one the wiser. I will _not_ be his victim again." His attention was caught and riveted by the slow fall of her tears, and every crystal drop sliced deeply into him. Once he had held her and soothed such sorrow, but now…. With his heart unavoidably in his eyes, he vowed, "When this is all over, I will make you happy with your choice. I promise you, Christine. I can give you the life you deserve, and even if you'll never love me, eventually you may believe that what I'm doing right now is rooted in love for you, above all else, even my reputation. Someday you'll be able to look and truly see all I've done for you, and you'll stop hating me for it." Abruptly straightening his posture and adopting formality, he flatly commanded, "Go and get changed. The seamstress will be here shortly for the final fitting for your wedding gown. I shall be so pleased to see you in it tomorrow."

Finality was one last shared look and a denial of compassion when hers was saturated in solemn tears, and the Vicomte stormed out of the study with heartache in every footfall.

Almost immediately, Meg came rushing in, green eyes wide with every sentence overheard, but she was too late to stop Christine from slipping into a heap of skirts and curls on the floor under the power of her sobs.

"Oh, Christine," the little ballerina emphatically cried, hastily crouching beside her and wrapping her little arms around her sagging shape. "I'm sorry! It's so horrible! I tried to deter Raoul. He came charging about last night looking for you, and I told him that you'd gone to bed with a headache. Evidently, I'm not as believable as you are; ballerinas don't have to be stellar actresses, you know. He didn't listen to a word I said; he was insisting something about a missing letter from his desk."

Realization was beaming through the rainclouds in her head. A scrap of a letter in her own hand, and no, she had not been the most adept at hiding her indiscretion, leaving the Vicomte's desk in a rummaged state when he preferred pristine order. It was such a mundane offense, but of course, to him, it only spoke of guilt.

"What are you going to do, Christine?" Meg asked nervously after the brunt of another sob.

But Christine could not answer because the very uttering of such words was too much. It was about to be the greatest sin on her soul, and a step away from what she had wanted was now a brick wall, unbreakable in its construction, a future lost as quickly as it had been dreamed.

* * *

Heartache disguised as apathy, and every tear, every wound had to be concealed beneath its curtain. Of course, this wasn't the first time Christine had had to put up a convincing front; opera roles required such deception and separation of heart. How had she survived _Don Juan Triumphant_ with its underlying plot of catching a murderer, knowing the theatre had been filled to its corners with armed gendarme on a mission of shooting upon sight? She had established a veneer that night and had allowed emotion to twist behind its façade. But opera audiences were a gullible sort, impressed mainly by stratospheric pitches and cadenzas; such virtuosic feats could surpass poor acting skills and create a diva among the masses of sopranos, believability becoming second in its importance, but this time…. One flaw, and she would no longer be destroying Erik's heart; she'd be responsible for the loss of his life as well.

Meg went with her, keeping beside her even though no words were spoken between them as they each pondered the horror of their current trek. Breaking the heart of the Opera Ghost seemed an inevitable execution to the little ballerina, and considering the hours of tears she had seen Christine shed, she admired her friend's strength to go through with it so stoically. Anyone else might have shattered, but as Meg was seeing, Christine was far stronger than anyone had given her credit for.

The only falter in her countenance came when the house appeared within view. For one second, a shivering overtook Christine's limbs, one second and in the next, the evidence of it was gone as if it had never occurred. Erik…, and one waver would have him going after Raoul in a rage, and when she had watched firsthand as the armed guards were put into place at the de Chagny mansion as a so-called formality, she did not want such a chance to be taken. She knew Erik so well. She knew that if he were aware of what the Vicomte was doing, he would react rashly with his belief in his own indestructible invincibility as his guide. He never could accept that he was fallible; no, not the almighty Opera Ghost. But Christine knew better. She had once believed her father was a permanent staple in her life; every child believed such a falsehood about her parents, that they would be eternally fixed in the world, and when he had died, she had had to learn that nobody was immortal and people could be lost as quickly as seasons changed. Never again would she take life for granted, especially Erik's. She could not punish him further for loving her by watching him die for it. If she followed her own internal monologue to perfection, she would have him hating her but at least he'd be alive.

Just before the trees parted at the door, Christine halted Meg with a steady hand upon her arm and asked, "Will you stay here and wait for me?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to come inside with you?"

Christine shook her head solemnly. "You carry too much heart in your eyes. If I look at you, I'll forget to harden mine to go through with this."

"…This is wrong, Christine." Meg spoke the words playing incessantly in Christine's conscience, but even as she nodded, she could not change things.

"Wait for me," Christine repeated, and then she was quietly opening the door and slipping inside.

A certain agitation brought her to the living room and the sound of flustered motion, and peering in, her heart gave a betraying skip to see his shape, his details, his very body, pacing between half-unpacked boxes so lost in thought that he didn't even notice her observation at first. It gave her long enough to make one more memory, to engrain in her mind this last moment that he loved her. That was about to seem his greatest misfortune.

Abruptly shaken back to reality, Erik averted anxious eyes to her silhouette in the doorframe, and the smile that lit his masked face tried to seep into her heart, but her will to deny it was stronger this time.

"Christine…," he breathed with an inflection of uncertainty that was laced through every step he took in a tentative approach. Right in front of her, so near that her body's natural heat welcomed his as its perfect echo, he halted and studied her nuances, making answers for unasked questions before she ever said a word. "…Is it regret? Regret for signing over your life to my heart? …Or…what did the Vicomte say to you when you told him that you won't marry him?"

"Nothing," she stated without sway when lies flowed so smoothly, "because I haven't told him, and I don't intend to."

Even with a mask to dull the sharpness of expressions, she could tell that he was still trying to decipher her as he tested with more inquiry. "And…do you prefer that? Stealing away without explanations and broken hearts? …We could leave this very moment if that is the case."

"No," she declared before he could set out plans. "No, I'm not leaving, Erik. I'm marrying the Vicomte tomorrow, and…I came to say goodbye to you."

Suspicion was piquing, and yet he kept it reserved and silent. "Oh? And is it customary for you to so eagerly share the bed of the man who doesn't get to keep you in the end? …Marrying the Vicomte, and yet last night you were planning a future with me."

"It was a lie," she decided, and her composure was sewn so intricately that the seam could not be seen or unraveled. "It was one night; I wanted to give you one night. After all I have put you through, I wanted you to have something beautiful…, something to remember instead of only pain."

Erik was racing his eyes over every feature of her face with skepticism that was fading in and out of focus and twining with the inevitable rising of his temper. "And what is this then? More pain. You would truly stand before me right now and call every exquisite detail of last night a _lie_? Truly, Christine? Are these your own words, and is mine the heart that is breaking from their bitterness? Tell me what _you_ want, _ange_."

Hesitating should have created fine cracks in her veneer, but she was too strong this time. "I want to marry Raoul. It _was_ the future _you_ gave me, after all. You knew that he was the right choice even if I was confused. …I've loved him all along. How could I not? He is perfection, and you…you're a murderer and a monster."

"Don't," he coldly spat, and the fire flaming in his eyes made violent threats out of what had once been fevered adorations. "Don't do this."

"Speak the truth?" she posed with a shake of her head and detached her heart when anger had such an undercurrent of pain. "I don't love you. How could I possibly? And every act last night was done out of pity and a sense of compensation."

"You touched me," he reminded sharply. "You weren't disgusted. There was no lie there."

"But there was no love there either. You feared exactly that once before, that I would only ever know sympathy for you and your deformity, compassion maybe. I could never love it, Erik; …it's a _horror_."

Every instinct begged him to lash out and force every ugly word off of her beautiful lips, but he clutched rage in tight muscles and fixed limbs and simply stared. "A horror, Christine? Then it must have been torture for you to touch such a horror last night, to kiss it, to make it seem so convincingly that you wanted it."

Feigning apathy, she stated, "You trained me to be a believable actress, and you wanted to trust me so badly that you never considered that when I shivered, it wasn't out of desire. I can be quite persuasive with I'm playing a part. You should know that better than anyone."

Mismatched eyes were glaring, and when his hands darted out and caught her forearms, he had to control his fury enough not to leave bruises in viselike grasps. "Is this what _you_ want, Christine? To destroy us both for _him_?"

It was by effort that she remained undeterred, even when his hands upon her were inspiring memory and threatening to shatter her. "It is only _you_ who can argue destruction. I _love him_, Erik; he is everything I've ever dreamt of. For so long, you wanted me to be strong in my convictions; well, that is what I am doing, claiming what _I_ want. And you cannot begrudge me. I gave you something that shouldn't have even been yours. One night…, someday you'll be able to understand my sacrifice." Sacrifice…, and how it was breaking both of their hearts. Desperate to be beyond the power of those eyes, she struggled in his hold and commanded, "Let me go. I don't love you; there is nothing more to say."

Every bit of him longed only to drag her closer, to tear away clothing and any dared barrier between skin and lose himself in her again, so certain she wouldn't argue a single point if he was overwhelming her with his love again and proving it so undeniably. But he didn't follow whims this time. He forced his unwilling hands to part and release, to move away, open and tensed down every joint with the need to grasp. No. No, not if this was what _she_ wanted.

Taking necessary steps back, Christine laid the final stone into a constructed wall. "If you ever felt for me as you claimed to, then I ask that you leave me be. I don't want to see you ever again, Erik. Last night was all I could give you. …Maybe someday you'll be able to think about it and appreciate it for what it was."

"A lie?"

"A fantasy," she corrected, desperate not to let real emotion show through. "A fantasy of what can never be. I'm sorry. …I can't love a monster."

He wanted to argue it further, to force sense back into her head if necessary, but he didn't. He restrained impulse and its pull and held her eyes one last breath in his, searching blue depths for the fabrication in the background. What was the true lie? He wanted to insist it was her words. But he could find no proof to agree, and with anger mounting to the height of pain, he turned away, stalking to the piano with his back to her regard. With a huff so violent that it buckled lungs, he threw himself onto the bench and began to viciously play, heartbreaking pitches that tore out from the guts of the piano as its hammers beat savagely against its strings.

For one tear-filled moment when real emotion glistened through, she watched him and let the music pose its own attack on her, accusing and tearing into the very heart of her before she coerced uncooperative legs to carry her out the door and away.

"Christine." Meg rushed to her side and slid an arm about her shoulders as the music rang out and threatened. "What…what is he doing?"

"Making certain that I know that his heart is breaking," she softly bid with tears pooling her eyes and tumbling loose to fall. "I don't know if he'll listen and stay away, but I called him a horror. A _horror_!" The tears fell faster as she gasped, "I told the man I love that he could only be a monster to me!"

"And he did nothing in retaliation?" Meg asked in surprise with one recollection of the Opera Ghost's antics in an opera house, too many to recount.

"Nothing? …But don't you hear it in the music?" she demanded, half-distracted by every pitch. "He's breaking apart, Meg, and he wants me to suffer for my weakness. It's in the music, …in the music." Notes and pitches to anyone else would not rip into skin and bone as viciously as words and weapons, but Christine felt every sting, every vengeful outrage and cry and knew they were deserved.

"Come away from here, Christine," Meg begged desperately. "You don't need to torment yourself further."

"I don't want to leave him," Christine revealed in a sob, but she did not struggle free as Meg pulled her toward the woods. Leaving her heart upon a piano's suffering strings, she abandoned the only future she wanted, once again appearing as the weak child when in reality, she was anything but that. No, she was strong, and that strength had been a curse as much as a blessing. It made her choose him and equally give him up.

* * *

The piano had barely ceased its bellowing in long, unending hours, and as what could only barely be called music when it carried so much emotion poured out of every crack and wall to resound into the woods, it announced Erik's presence in a far more distinctive way than he typically indulged, announced like an undeniable beacon light. It certainly made it easy for Nadir to locate the house when he had taken to wandering to nearby estates warily and half-sure he'd get lost before he'd ever find Erik's residence. Before he ever crossed the threshold to enter uninvited, he knew such music was a bad sign. If things were settled, then Nadir knew he'd be audience to major key sonatas and adagio lullabies. This was dissonant madness in comparison.

Almost immediately upon his entrance, the ugly chords stopped mid-ring, and there was a frantic stirring of activity that brought a hopeful, anticipating Erik into the living room doorway. Anticipating and then rapidly annoyed in the first glimpse of his guest.

"Daroga, …did we not act this exact scene months ago? You arriving uninvited in my home and shattering my hopes with your very presence," Erik coldly reminded. "If you are here on another errand from your kindred spirit the Vicomte, don't waste your breath. He's already played his next hand without you, and now I just have to figure out how to go about killing him and ending this ridiculous game we've been indulging for far too long."

"And so we've returned to revenge against the Vicomte," Nadir concluded with a sigh. "Well, I'm pleased that nothing new has developed in my absence. I would have hated to be uninformed upon my arrival."

"Nothing new," Erik muttered beneath his breath before suddenly allowing realization to dawn. "We're not underground at the opera. What are you doing here? I don't recall leaving a forwarding address for former friends."

"Since my 'kindred spirit' the Vicomte, as you call him, has neglected to send me a formal invitation to the wedding, that must mean that I am here specifically to see _you_, former friend. Can we overcome the injustices we've done one another if I merely apologize to you, or do you intend to hold a grudge forever? Considering your shortage of pleasant acquaintances who from time to time save your life and occasionally look after it, I would argue that you could use a favorable relationship, especially if we have returned to musings of murder or suicide, whichever the case may be." Even as he made it seem a gross exaggeration, Erik's unchanged expression put Nadir on edge as he worriedly inquired, "Is that the true state of things, Erik? Murder or suicide?"

"Decidedly murder," Erik stated plainly. "You know of my aversion to suicide. And besides, I have too much worth living for to opt for an easy way out. …If we are so avidly friends again, then you might as well know that I intend to stop the Vicomte's sham of a wedding by whatever means possible, and yes, murder is a viable option. And if you are going to be so inclined to tell him and warn him of impending danger, thereby betraying this sordid friendship and ending it once again in its tracks, know that I don't care. Do what you feel you must for your inconstant conscience."

"I am _not_ loyal to the Vicomte," Nadir proclaimed adamantly. "I never told him that you were here, and I am not out to keep in his good graces. But please humor me enough to tell me why we have decided upon murder, or do I already know…?"

"Because Christine loves _me_."

"And we have returned to that as well," Nadir stated, half to himself. "So what has it been? Have you been stealing her away, insisting that you know she could only love you? Have you placed ultimatums before her again and sought to force the truth out of her?"

A biting glare was his reply, narrowed eyes and a sneer as Erik snapped, "You know I don't think I want your lackluster friendship anyway. Leave!"

But the daroga just shook his head without even a bit of sway. "All right, I'm sorry for assumptions, but…well, that was how it was played the last time. You can't blame me for following history. So…what was it this time then?"

"Christine loves me," he attempted to reveal again. "She chose me, conceded to marry me instead, and now…well, he has said something to convince her that she so adamantly loves him and only him."

"And how do you know that? Perhaps it's the truth."

Huffing his disbelief, Erik explained, "I know she is lying because Christine may be a wonderful little actress, but _I_ made her that way. At first, I nearly believed her, when my temper got the best of me, but…hours of playing cleared my head and reminded me of her every flaw when she is on the stage. Anyone else would have been convinced by her little performance, but I inspired her every trick." _Every_ trick, and as he had been engrossed in notes, he had spent the last sonata condemning himself for ever letting her pass the threshold of the door without the truth.

"Erik…." Pausing a breath, Nadir carefully considered what he could possibly say that would not result in vicious tirades and being tossed out of the house altogether. "…You already know why I must doubt you. After the last time-"

"This is _not_ like the last time!" Erik shouted, making Nadir cringe and regret speaking. "Because I could have forced her, but I didn't. I let her come to me and love me, and I also let her make her own choices. But there is a vast difference between free will and exploitation, and the Vicomte de Chagny is not as innocent in the latter as he'd have anyone believe. Ask him, daroga! If you don't believe me, go to him and get the facts from his own mouth. Of course he'll tell you; he'd love to have someone to gloat to over his triumph. He thinks he's won already, but the hell if I will lose everything I've ever dreamt of to _him_!"

Erik would have continued with frantic utterances of every threat he could devise, but a series of flustered knocks at the door broke into his rage and had him racing for the foyer with Nadir right behind him.

"Christine," he was whispering as he jerked the knob, but as it clicked and turned, his awaiting visitor regarded him with wide, horrified eyes and a quick glance back over her shoulder to make certain no one had followed.

"M…Monsieur Fantôme."

"Mademoiselle Giry." Erik's greeting was laden with his disappointment before impatience swelled with one abrupt thought. "Christine? Is she all right?"

"May I come inside?" Meg nervously stammered with more peeks backward although she was suddenly uncertain if she had more to fear from a pursuer or from the desperate Opera Ghost and the terrifying Persian that Meg only recalled ever seeing that last night as she had lingered in the catacombs. The Persian man had followed Christine and Raoul out from the underground, looking just as tattered and weary as the Vicomte. Only later had she learned why with an explanation of torture chambers from her mother, another point that was sworn to secrecy…even if Jammes had inevitably been included in that promise's boundary as well.

Erik scrutinized the anxious little ballerina one more long moment before stepping aside and allowing her in, and as she scurried into the living room, he cast his own perusal over silent woods to know without a doubt that no one lurked behind before he closed out the world and impatiently joined Meg. She had taken her own seat upon the couch without permission or request, but she had been careful to perch at the edge of the cushion ready to leap up and run if needed. It seemed an intelligent option when both men were staring at her with eyes that were more determined than words to have answers.

"I…I…I'm sorry to intrude." Meg stumbled over her own voice as she observed the abundance of half-packed boxes with arching golden brows. "You weren't…leaving, were you?"

"Not without Christine," Erik said, ignoring Nadir's doubt and keeping attention solely on Meg.

"Oh, thank heavens! I thought she might have truly convinced you!" Meg was exclaiming urgently. "But you know she was lying, don't you?"

"Lying?" Nadir questioned, fitting the facts into place despite the terror-stricken look Meg was giving him. "Speak the truth, mademoiselle. Why was Mademoiselle Daaé lying?"

"Don't interrogate the girl," Erik ordered coldly. "Stay back and just listen. You're scaring the wits out of her, and I need a comprehensible explanation yet from her lips."

"_I_ am scaring her?" Nadir questioned the Opera Ghost doubtfully with memories of shrieking ballerinas scattering about shouting terror over their resident phantom. But with a huff, he conceded and lingered in the doorway, watching carefully as Erik tentatively approached the wide-eyed girl and knelt unthreateningly on the carpet at her feet.

"What did he say to her, Meg?" Erik calmly posed, never daring a touch or any quick motions when faced with such fright.

Swallowing hard, she forced a tremulous breath and replied on its exhalation, "He said that you would be dead before he'd ever let you marry her. …But you already concluded that, didn't you? Only your life would be worthy of such a sacrifice for her. She was determined to keep you safe. …I wasn't supposed to tell you, but…I'm not very good at keeping secrets. And to see her that way and know why…, I couldn't bear it. What he's doing is abhorrent! I can't believe he can manipulate her and yet still claim to love her!"

Cringing to himself with the recollection of his own abhorrent manipulation justified by love, he refused to bring focus to past folly and instead asked, "Where is she now? Is she all right?"

"She would barely stop crying; I only left her side because she fell asleep. But…," Meg glanced worriedly between the men, "the Vicomte has armed guards posted everywhere. I barely got away without some sort of pursuit and questioning. I overheard him giving assignments, and they are to shoot if they even glimpse a mask. …What do you intend to do? You can't let her marry the Vicomte no matter what horrible words she said to you. None of them were true."

"I know," Erik assured before shifting attention to the observing Nadir. "Well, daroga? Whose side are you taking this time? I'd appreciate not being stabbed in the back again at your first opportunity."

"Your side, of course, and I'm sorry it's ever been any different," he declared sincerely, and an unspoken oath passed in a gaze that Erik nodded to accept. "Now how do we get to her?"

"Well, …you insinuated how much you wanted to attend the wedding," Erik replied with an idle shrug. "But tell me, daroga; who will draw more attention in that societal bubble: a Persian foreigner or a disfigured monster? It will certainly be interesting to find out."


	9. Chapter 9

The tension in the room was palpable that evening, and Meg had to wonder as she observed the scene with a meek sort of fascination how the Comtesse did not notice it or the lack of joy on a bride-to-be's drawn face. No, Comtesse de Chagny carried on her boisterous, one-sided conversation as if anyone else's input was inconsequential anyway, filling in every inadequate personality with her own overbearing loudness. Meg had to wonder if that was how the Comtesse endured quiet evenings at home when she did not have houseguests: one-sided conversations with furniture, a sad reality and yet completely fathomable.

Not for the first time since an awkward supper had ended, Meg cast an anxious glance to Raoul, surprised that he had chosen sullen as his demeanor even if his current supposed company only consisted of Meg and her mother. Well, it certainly revealed how little the Vicomte actually thought of them; even the butler Andrew was worthy of fake smiles and seeming propriety!

As Madame Giry made a great declaration over the Comtesse's unceasing prattling to insist that she was destined for her bed and a decent rest before the chaos of daybreak, Meg shifted wide eyes to Christine in time to see her dull nod of agreement.

"Bed?" The Comtesse was making her own displeasure known like a child to a strict parent despite the fact that she was nearly the same age as Madame Giry. "But…it's early yet."

And yet as Meg well knew, _no one_ posed arguments with her mother and won. Within minutes, the party was dispersing and heading upstairs, even the belligerent Vicomte, and it left Meg nervously hasty in her actions.

"I will be up in a moment, Mama," Meg insisted. "Christine and I were going to discuss proper etiquette for tomorrow so that I don't make a fool of myself before all of society."

Madame Giry eyed her daughter skeptically, seeking the real answer without a single word, and as Meg shifted nervously on her feet, sure she was giving herself away, her mother glanced to Christine's somber expression and distraught solemnity before nodding consent. Well, of course, Meg insisted to herself. Christine had once been like a second daughter when an orphan starting at the opera. Perhaps Meg hadn't needed to lie at all, or so said the compassion in the last gaze her mother granted Christine. Likely, the old ballet mistress already knew the truth. Little went on in an entire opera house without her knowledge; mansion houses of Comtesses could be no different.

And just like that, the girls were left alone in the parlor, and Meg's apprehension became a proud smile as she declared to her sad friend, "You have an engagement out in the gazebo to attend."

"The gazebo?" Christine questioned, and yet could she deny the immediate leaping of her heart? "There are Raoul's armed guards positioned outside the house."

"Not in the gardens. And you are not strolling the night as the fiancée of the Vicomte. You forget that the Vicomte's armed guards are not society patrons. They've never seen you; as far as they know, you are Meg Giry, a guest free to come and go as she pleases. As Christine, you may be on the verge of a prisoner here, but _I_ am not." A laugh of delight escaped her lips to regard Christine's astonished surprise. "You hardly believe I can be so conniving! And if you must know, this part of the plot was entirely _my_ idea; I couldn't bear to see you suffer unknowing until the real drama starts tomorrow. So go on then, Christine. Out the terrace door, and if any of them stop you, you are not you; you are me. And the real Meg Giry is going up to _your_ room. I am posing as you, asleep with the covers over my head in case dearest Raoul sends anyone to check. As long as I can carry off a decent snoring and the lights stay out, we are safe."

In spite of every fear and doubt, Christine couldn't keep her lips from smiling, and with a quick hug to her giggling friend, she insisted, "You are quite good at conniving. I would have never thought!"

"Oh, I am an absolute surprise to be sure! Well, when I'm _keeping_ secrets and not _telling_ them. But go on. You'll see the best part of my scheme yet awaiting you in the gazebo."

One last hug, and Christine darted for the terrace door, slipping silently out into the night as Meg watched her go with only a flutter of anxiety in the background of bravery.

Guards were lolling about here and there, most incompetent and having conversations with each other rather than watching the house, so it was without effort that she passed their surveillance and found herself in the stillness of the gardens with moonlight's path to guide her between flowerbeds that called her to life with their muted colors. Better judgment was the only one to push protests in her way, but it was overpowered by far too much desire for one body. She _needed_ to see him with a necessity that made her footsteps light and barely graze the ground. And the instant she glimpsed a dark silhouette within the vine arches of the gazebo, her heart gave an eager thud of delight, racing against trepidation to meet his. Hearts could greet and embrace each other, but her approach was hesitant and wary, her eyes holding his apprehensive gaze and reading the walls lingering in between. He was waiting, and she would have to be the one to collapse them again.

Sweeping a feverish stare over her details, Erik watched her as she timidly entered the gazebo, lingering feet away and afraid to cross the chasm between when all he wanted was to forge its distance heart-first and touch her.

In the softest whisper fringed with tears, she bid, "I called you a horror, …a monster…. I made the most wonderful blessing I've ever had seem like a curse. …Oh, Erik, …I'm so sorry." She was too exhausted to play pretenses and too heart-sick to form more lies, and as she watched a masked face soften its hard edges into the man she loved, she did not scold herself for her own resounding relief and burst of gratitude.

Hardly able to endure the weight of urgent fingers anymore, he encircled her forearm and drew her close, only able to take a full breath when she was pressed to his lungs and hugging him in return. "I love you," he gasped against her hair. "How I love you! Say what you will; that won't change."

"You are _not_ a horror," she was desperate to insist, "not to me, _never_ to me."

"Words aren't important. How quickly you forget that I've been called nearly every insult in recorded language; …words don't hurt me anymore. But if I had had to see you marry that bastard Vicomte, _that_ would have damaged me beyond repair."

"He wants to kill you," she confided though never drew away as her lips formed idle kisses just within the collar of his shirt. "If I refuse to marry him, he will come after us and _kill you_." She repeated the words with emphasis when the only response his body was giving to such news against her was contingent on kisses.

"You give him far more credibility than he deserves," Erik insisted, tracing eager hands along her spine to mold her body more firmly to his. "Why are you so afraid that he will best us? You neglect to remember that the last time I wasn't even confident that I had your love as my own. Now knowing what I have to lose, I am stronger than ever. He won't win, _and_ he is about to have every advantage his reputation has ever earned him tarnished in the eyes of his precious society. I am going to make sure that he has nothing left for all he has tried to take from me."

"Then you have a plan," she concluded, shivering at his nearness and only inching ever closer with every moment until she was willingly arching against the hardness of his desire and feeling every reaction of his body with him.

Losing a moan against her temple first, he then insisted, "Four months ago, I would have simply spirited you away and buried us safely underground for the rest of our lives, but now…well, I want to give you more than that. I want the future we discussed, and since that includes being a part of the world and the opera, then I won't have you constantly worrying in the back of your pretty head that the Vicomte will pursue us. This has to be ended."

"Without murder or death," she added adamantly.

"Without murder or death," he agreed. "But you are going to have to be strong, Christine, stronger than loving a disfigured monster has made you."

The distance she created in an embrace was necessary as her eager fingers reached for the obtrusion of a mask and rid him of it, finding her disfigured monster beneath. Desperate to alter perceptions, she began to cover damaged skin with healing kisses, making his denounced misfortune seem something exquisite.

"Oh, Christine," those lips breathed as a returned caress that she savoured. "My first consideration when you insisted that you loved the Vicomte was that you regretted last night and its every provocative detail."

"No, no," she fervently bid with equaled kisses to the rough skin of an unmarred side. "I've barely been able to think about it for fear I'd never have it again. If that had been the only time…. Erik, never again to feel you inside of me…." Her words were breathless, and memory made him burn and clutch her tighter to his aching need.

"And you were going to wed the Vicomte," he stated tightly, "and so callously give yourself to him. …That was the sacrifice you spoke of, not sharing my bed but sharing his."

Cringing with the mere implication of such a fate, she covered his jaw with frantic, beseeching kisses and insisted, "I would do what I must to keep you safe and alive."

"Ah, but what if you were carrying my child?" He dared to pose the thought in his head, even as he was worried what her reaction to such news could be, and rightly so as he watched her tentatively meet his stare with wide eyes. "It's hardly impossible," he quickly continued. "And what if the child bore _my_ face? I doubt that the Vicomte would ever be able to accept such a tragedy. A child that not only isn't his own but bears the ugly horror of its real father. …No, the Vicomte would accept nothing less than perfection."

"Then if that is his idea of perfection, he shouldn't want me," Christine decided, "for I have been marked and tainted by the Opera Ghost himself and I can only be his. …And I would be proud if our children looked like their father." The smile that appeared upon content lips said that she spoke true and not just appeasing. "You forget that I think you are beautiful, my Erik."

"But a child, Christine?" he pushed. "A child bearing my face?"

"Would be more loved than any other child in existence and would be taught tolerance as well as humility. Our child would learn that it is not a face that defines a human being; it is a _soul_. And if the soul beams bright and brilliant, then it can make beauty even on a damaged canvas."

Erik could not help but be moved by her words, and as he caught her face between eager hands, he bid, "And this damaged canvas before you? Does a soul make it beautiful? Or is it only the sheer adoration I radiate for you and _only_ you?"

"Oh, that is equally as appealing," she decided, thrilling to be the victim of exactly that adoration so vividly that it made her ache. Beneath a surface of pure white bliss, reality was a dark ocean of waves that occasionally poked through to insist its ominous recollection and made shadows in her smile. "Erik, why can't this already be our forever? Without threat of death or separation hovering over it? …I am supposed to marry the Vicomte tomorrow, and today I nearly broke your heart. Why must it be that between every moment of exquisiteness are gaps of anguish?"

"That is life," Erik answered as he ran tender hands through her hair. "And if we can bind together the best parts of it and make something strong and unbreakable, then the bad are never that damning. So we cling to the happy respites when we have them even if they are fleeting and use their radiance to dull the moments of pain. Life is a web of both with nuances in between, but I vow to you, Christine, to give you more happy than sad and make up for the darks we've endured well enough to still harbor their scars. And I'll make this one only a blur without distinctions in the timeline of memories where we recall the threat but never the details. I intend to weave so many better moments atop it that it is buried from thought."

Vows of a future she was yet terrified to accept as true, fearful that the instant her fingers closed about its corners, it would be ripped from her grip, and though she did not speak her trepidation, she knew that he felt it and wondered if beneath every assurance, he carried it the same. Her hand caught one of his at her cheek and held it still as she turned her head to press her lips to his concealed wrist where other scars lived, another bad moment that he'd buried in his spun web and chosen to forget. Such a fact gave her hope.

"I love you," she promised, rubbing her cheek to the spot. "And I will give you a similar anticipation: an abundance of wonderful times to shroud the bad. You've suffered too many tragedies, some that I myself have been responsible for creating. I intend to make you forget any time that I wasn't loving you as I am now."

Chuckling lightly, he inquired, "And was there ever such a time? Beneath everything else, you've _always_ loved me, haven't you?"

She had to mimic his uncontained grin even as she said, "Yes, even when I sought to push you away and ran from your love, I loved you. You _are_ my heart."

"Oh, Christine," he breathed, leaning near to brush idle kisses along her brow. "How I wish this was over, and I could take you home with me!" Grazing another kiss down her temple, he spoke his desire against her ear as she shivered in his embrace, "I want you so much that I can hardly bear it."

Her eyes felt heavy with the thickness of passion, and as he dared to cover the crease of her neck with sudden kisses, she lost an eager cry and clutched his shoulders with desperate fingers. He was determined to make his desire evidently known and shared, and kisses grew in heat and fervency as his tongue tasted her skin so delicately that her hand caught in his hair and encouraged more with a fisted grasp.

One more yearning lick from a tingling tongue, and he whispered, "I wish to lay kisses like that over every inch of your body, every detail and glorious feature tasted and cherished even if it is from lips that are misshapen and will never be entirely worthy. I almost cannot resist and keep control merely with the thought of it: these lips that I've always been ashamed were mine and abhorred at every chance buried within every heated place of your body. It is arousing in its blatant transgression."

Shuddering from head to toe, she had to collect enough wits together to form a reply. "No, not a transgression if I long for your lips upon me and would beg for it, if my wanting comes solely from the fact that they would be _your_ lips and it would be _your_ tongue tasting me."

To hear such provocative ideas spoken by her sweet voice made him gasp and moan against her throat and whisper in husky tones, "Yes, Christine, _my_ lips and _my_ tongue, and I ache to devour every bit of you! Think about that tonight when you're lying in your bed worrying over tomorrow's dire events; imagine every second and how desperately I'll be burning for you. It will give you something to anticipate instead of only instances to dread."

"And will you be doing the same?" she asked with the hint of a still-shy blush upon her cheeks.

"Of course! I spend every breath not in your presence fantasizing you into existence. Know that it is always a disappointment when I long to touch you so much and for exactly this: you in my arms, safe and loving me in return." His dream brought to life, and it was a form of torture to reluctantly release her with only one more gentle kiss as compensation. "I won't jeopardize my plan with the Vicomte realizing that you aren't in your room. The little Giry girl might be decent at concocting clandestine meetings in the moonlight, but she is an awful liar. I don't doubt that one question from the Vicomte will have the truth spilling out of her."

Even as she knew he was right, it was a sharp disappointment to watch him replace his mask. "And now you're a stranger to me," she said with a shake of her head. "The man in a mask might have been the one to pursue my heart, but the man with the scars is the one I gave it to."

Erik grinned at her analysis and decided, "Then I shall have to denounce the mask entirely and choose to only be the man you love all of the time."

"And then I'll be able to kiss you whenever I like," she agreed with a flash of excitement and proved her point by setting a kiss against the mask's material. "I could be kissing your cheek right now instead. Imagine that tonight when we're apart as well."

"I love you," he stated with a reverent caress along her cheek. "Please stay safe."

Nodding, she slowly broke away, sharing a final adoring look before she abandoned the gazebo and let moonlight lead her back to the confinement of another life with a new determination to every step. No matter what had to be done, with Erik's heart tied so intricately to her own, she would be as strong as she had to and win their future. She would _not_ destroy them both again. And if that meant facing armed guards and a raging Vicomte, so be it. She would _not_ lose her love.

* * *

Nadir was the most nervous of them all as he paced the carpet of Erik's living room, glancing time and again at a pocket watch and then, as if its ticked time was a lie, out the terrace windows, considering judging the hour by the beaming sun's position instead. It was only a miniscule relief when Erik strolled idly into the room and joined him, his confident air exuding the aura of his past persona.

"Have you any idea what time it is?" Nadir snapped before he could think better of it. "The wedding is set to begin in only a couple of hours. You can be sure that the guests have already begun to arrive, and where are we? Still confined to this house a mile away when we should be there organizing the perfect plot and its every detail to precision."

"Oh, calm yourself, Nadir," Erik replied with mock severity. "Everything will work out to my exact calculations. You anxious little man! If it eases your pretension, I will tell you that as you slept the night away, I made the arrangements I need, thus why I am not rushing about with the same sort of insanity that has gripped you in its clutches."

"And so we are going to do what then?" Nadir demanded without ease. "Loll about here until the ceremony is starting?"

"Of course not! But I cannot chance lurking about the less concealing corridors of a church and being seen by some of the Vicomte's stuffy comrades. I don't want to give my presence away before the overture."

"Overture? Wedding march, you mean," Nadir corrected sharply. "And watching your beloved walk down the aisle to another man."

Erik's glare was fringed in his temper as he insisted back, "If you are not intending to cease this agitation and the insults that are coming from it, then why not make yourself useful? Go on ahead and check on Christine if it settles _your_ mind, daroga. Just avoid being caught by the Vicomte's inept guards. I need you in that church after the curtain is up."

"Curtain? Erik, you do recall that this is reality and not another opera show, don't you? And that those pistols the guards are carrying aren't props and contain very tangible bullets that rip through flesh when shot?" Shaking his head, he continued, "And that the girl in a wedding dress is your _Christine_, not one of her soprano roles brought to life?"

With a huff, he decided, "I don't see the difference, daroga. Another opera show," he shrugged. "If all goes to plan, this will be my best work yet. When this is over, perhaps I will compose a real score for its every ugly nuance and truly place it on the stage where it belongs."

"Oh, you do that," Nadir sarcastically bid, "if we live through this."

It would have astounded him with how careless Erik was being with too many lives in his hands, but he knew the man seeming apathetic before him, certain he had had something that was the equivalent of this same conversation a dozen times over the past years. This was the Opera Ghost before him now, in all his glory, conniving, manipulating, scheming to every facet of a plot, and accustomed to achieving a desired result in the end. Yes, this was the Erik that never lost…except for one point. As he lingered near his piano, paging through the piece that was yet set out, he idly reached for his mask and lifted it off and away as if it meant nothing at all, resting that imperative article of clothing lightly upon the piano's keys and actually releasing it from his grasp.

That face gave Nadir a moment of unease with its visual oddities and their prominence; it was just too easy to forget the extent of its abnormal characteristics when it lay hidden beneath a mask. Unsure of the proper inquiry to make to this unusual and bizarre behavior, Nadir simply questioned, "Erik?"

Never looking up from his music, Erik flatly stated, "Get all of your gawking over with and completed now, daroga. I won't have you faltering when I need you because you've momentarily been stunned to idiocy by my face again."

"But…you're not going to wear your mask?"

Shrugging as if such news was insignificant, he replied, "The guards are looking for a man in a mask, are they not? It seems counterproductive to appear in the very object of their obsession. I'll have better luck with the shock value of being without it as you just proved so well." To the absolute surprise of Nadir, the misshapen lips on that face curved into a wry smile. "And besides, my lady favors the man without the mask. She loves the damaged shell more than the pretense that it is perfect. You'll see what I mean, daroga. Christine gives not even a start to glimpse my face anymore; she loves me not in spite of its ugliness but _because_ of it."

"Well, Christine not included in this tally, but you are about to incur the horror and fear of hundreds of society's best. Are you so sure you wish to do that?"

"Not a doubt," he sincerely answered, smile unfading. "Now go on. I did mean it when I suggested that you go and check on Christine. …Tell her that I love her and not to forget to perform to her audience. They deserve a glorious show."

Rolling his eyes, Nadir chose not to remind yet again that there was no fiction in today's production and simply left things at that. With a nod of assurance that spoke far more than the menial task he was about to undertake, he turned and abandoned the disfigured man knowing that a corpse stared after him until he was gone and undisturbed by that fact. Erik was supposed to be the odd and unusual one in a throng, but perhaps it was everyone else that was abnormal and a loving, feeling corpse was a step closer to what they should all hope to be.

True to prediction, it wasn't a difficult feat to sneak into the church, not amongst dozens of finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen. In a similar suit, Nadir was practically one of them as long as he kept his face from a direct view, knowing in that regard, he was as out of place as Erik would be. But lackluster guards never even cast a suspicious glimpse as he followed the fluid movement of the crowd and slipped unnoticed into a narrow corridor, not unlike the hallway of dressing rooms behind the opera's stage. Perhaps Erik wasn't entirely erroneous in comparing this to a production.

As he approached the furthest closed door, he noticed Meg Giry lingering outside and watched the young ballerina's eyes widen in the instant she saw him despite the acquaintanceship they had achieved at their last encounter. It reminded him that though neither of them belonged in this world of high society, she had the better chance of pretending.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted tensely. "Is Mademoiselle Daaé inside?"

Observing him nervously, she gave a small nod. "And the Vicomte told me not to leave her. I guess it would have been too suspicious to post guards outside her room, so he hoisted me into the place instead. He thinks I am in some sort of alliance with him; he even tried to convince me that Christine is falling under some sort of spell concocted by the Opera Ghost." A flicker of guilt tainted her expression as she admitted, "A year ago, I would have believed him."

Nadir nodded his understanding and asked, "Will she see anyone, or is she insisting to be left alone?"

"She's apprehensive, but go inside. I bet your presence will assure her in a way my words can't possibly." Without pause, Meg opened the door for him, giving Nadir no other option as the beautiful bride-to-be turned expectant blue eyes from their musings, and though he was a far cry from her disfigured prince, her expression still glowed with a certain contentment to see him.

"Don't worry," Meg promised them both. "I'll warn you if the Vicomte makes an appearance." And with that, she returned to her place in the hall, closing them safely inside.

Nadir was half-enchanted by the scene before him. Unlike the opera house, this was no dark, contained dressing room. Sunlight poured in from tall windows and created fleeting halos around a vision in white. She was the exact opposite of the damaged monster Nadir had left back at the house, the other half of a love story, and yet the glow in her eyes was identical in its radiance.

"Mademoiselle." He stammered a flustered formality and was thrown even further into agitation as she approached with a rustle of full white skirts and caught one of his hands in both of hers.

"Have you seen Erik?" she immediately asked with such blatant anticipation that it made her eyes sparkle with their life. "Please tell me that he is all right."

"Yes, yes, he's fine." All Nadir could consider was that last night he'd seen her at the opera, withdrawn and empty, numb as the Vicomte had taken her away with him, and Nadir had assumed it had been the final repercussions of Erik's madness, never that it had been caused by heartache. This girl before him now was healed and saved even as she was clothed in the Vicomte's wedding dress this time. "He was worried about _you_ actually and wanted me to look in on you, unnecessarily so. You look…wonderful, mademoiselle, certainly more confident than I am currently feeling or at least better at hiding it."

"Ah, but I am playing my part," she insisted beneath her smile. "The defeated heroine, ready to sacrifice herself for her love. And if I am not at my most believable, the Vicomte may start to wonder over the details."

"And how like Erik you sound!" Nadir exclaimed with a bit of a chuckle. "Roles and opera productions! The both of you are being rather flippant with the dire consequences should anything go awry."

"I prefer to think of it not as flippancy but as intelligence in this instance. We're playing the parts we are accomplished at portraying: he makes a flawless Opera Ghost and I've defined the role of weak victim. The fictitious aspect makes it easier to accept when good must triumph and love cannot be eternally lost."

"I'm too much a realist for your world of make believe," he decided, "and I've seen more tragic operas than comedies. It leaves me less optimistic." In the recesses of a kind smile was the undeniable pull of regret, and staring into Christine's seeming happiness, he felt compelled to admit in a tumble of words, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I am partially the cause of all of this. I helped the Vicomte and was the one to tell Erik that you were dead. So many lies, and I watched him fall to pieces because of them. Neither of you deserved such a fate, but I was so sure that the Vicomte's motives were just."

Christine listened intently and slowly shook her head. "And should I curse you for that or offer gratitude? The Erik I left four months ago loved me but would never let me love him in return, not unless he was controlling the very inspiration of it. The Erik that came here adores me _because_ I freely love him. For the first time, he isn't trying to force the beating of my heart and tug its strings anyway he deems correct because he isn't doubting every word I say and everything I feel. He believes me when I say that I love him."

And even if it didn't take his sense of blame away, one he readily applied to himself and carried as a penance, he replied, "It was a horrible situation, but at least something decently good came out of it."

"I know what you did for him," Christine revealed, lifting her own wrists to insinuate a sin she did not wish to speak and give full credence to. "You saved his life once before."

"Yes, well, at the time, he was being impulsively foolish. For as immoral as his life has been, he can get overwhelmed by that heart of his, and he can take emotions to such a blatant extreme. I guess it proves he is _not_ a monster, but…. That was the implied merit in the Vicomte's lie and how I knew it would work. Erik would understand how you could have been driven to…to that. It was the ideal pretense, and I told it because I was convinced that it would indeed become your very real future if Erik continued to go after you. The idea that he'd push you to such a sin seemed logical. How could I know that you _wanted_ him to pursue you?"

"Yes, Erik could understand the impetus for suicide, and he'd hate himself for not being there to save me as you saved him. You could have let him die; you knew what he was and the sorts of things he'd done. You saved him, and you thought you were saving me as well. I can't hate you for that."

"But in truth, I didn't save him at all," Nadir told her with an awed smile. "_You_ did. If you only knew the atrocities of his past and what he endured, then you'd understand why it affects me so much to consider what I saw today: a man who was completely unafraid for the first time in his life." Plain as could be, he revealed to her inquisitive stare, "He isn't wearing a mask, mademoiselle."

"He isn't?" All she could think was that she yearned to see him right then, to glimpse him striding about with his true face on display as normal as he could be. She held such pride just to hear it mentioned, but to see it, she knew she'd be overcome.

"It astounds me," Nadir continued, "to realize how you've changed him."

"_Love_ has changed him," she humbly stated.

"Yes, but it takes a very special woman to love a man like Erik. Not everyone could. …You are an amazement, and I will do everything I must to set things right and make certain that you end together, as it always should have been."

"Thank you," Christine breathed, patting his hand. "And, monsieur, don't worry so much about your sins against Erik. I've hurt him more than anyone and broken his heart over and over again, but he has a penchant for forgiveness that one might find unusual. You are the closest to a friend he's ever had; he will forgive you."

Nadir ruminated on the wisdom of her words before he could give a tentative nod at their validity, and with them as a sort of hope to his own guilt, he said, "Take care, mademoiselle. I am going to 'take my place' as you stage people say. Erik wanted it said that he loves you and to 'perform to your audience'; I'd wager that goes for me as well."

Eagerly nodding, she urged, "Good luck. Perhaps this will condition you to a life in the theatre."

"I…truly don't think so," he said to her teasing, and with one final smile, he slipped out into the hall as Meg rushed in.

"Well?" the little ballerina asked Christine. "Will this be another of the Opera Ghost's devices meant to wreck havoc and chaos?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what Erik is intending," Christine replied as she slowly smiled. "But whatever it is, it will be memorable. Everyone in society will be talking about the bizarre wedding of the Vicomte de Chagny even for generations to come. This may be as close to immortal legend that we ever get, Meg."

"Yes," Meg agreed with a giggle. "Remembered forever for being a part of the story of the Opera Ghost. Too bad I can't be infamous for my dancing, but talent is subordinate to tales of disfigured phantoms and true love. Oh well!"


	10. Chapter 10

In any typical opera role, Christine could so easily and methodically disconnect her heart and be someone else; this one proved a particular challenge as she lingered in the church's empty foyer and idly cast a quick glance down the long aisle lined by aristocrats in the pews while an equally pristine Vicomte awaited her beside a priest at the end. It was that very scene that reminded her blatantly that this wasn't a performance, but that it was her life, no matter how desperately she was promising her heart otherwise. Her life, yes, but her life equally included Opera Ghosts and music, the other details in an open-ended story looking for its finale. And despite a façade of weakness and slouched shoulders, seemingly odd for a bride or so her audience would think, strength was actually at her core. She would never be weak again.

And that strength became a fire within at the very introduction pitches of a pipe organ announcing her entrance. A wedding march, and yet peculiar in its accurate and ornamented execution. As every ignorant head turned to watch her and gaze in adoration at a bride, she longed to look up to the organ loft and gaze in adoration at a ghost brought to life, playing his beloved down the aisle to wed another man. But as always, music from those fingers was cathartic to her soul and stole any lingering apprehension as she obeyed its call and followed a path lined in rose petals toward her deceptively pleased groom.

It was a miracle that Christine was able to keep her eyes forward and deny the urgent pulling upon the strings of her heart to turn around, but she consigned herself to the empty smiles on the lips of strangers and let only her ears delight in Erik's existence, ears that would give no detail away to betray. No, it was only as she joined Raoul at the altar that she dared a peek at their audience and nonchalantly the stain-glass, window-lined organ loft, and what she saw left her heart skipping in its usually constant pulsation. His silhouette glowing in a myriad of colors from sun streaming through stained glass, only his back but so poised and stoic, the virtuosic musician playing for his love. She had to bury the true smile she yearned to give and force uncooperative eyes to the Vicomte.

As the march ceased, Raoul caught her hands in his, keeping her focus as he gently murmured, "Christine."

It was immediate in the echoing silence of the church from rafters to altar, a responding singsong call. "Christine, Christine…."

Half a performance, Christine's eyes widened, and she frantically glanced about, but there was no longer a single shadow in the loft as Erik was unseen and taunting.

"Christine, …_my_ Christine…." His resonating voice came from every direction, never his true location, eerie and haunting, and everyone in their audience looked for the source with growing agitation.

"What is this madness?" the Vicomte hissed at Christine as she shook a blameless head, appearing just as baffled and surprised.

In her seat amongst nervous aristocrats, Meg Giry cast a quick look at her equally confused mother, knowing that what she was about to do would result in a scolding later but unable to change her mind when this was her one important task in Erik's plans. As his wailing call for his bride resounded from left and right, never distinctive in its origin, Meg let out a shriek that drew attention solely to her and shouted, "The Opera Ghost! It's the Opera Ghost! He'll kill everyone for her! Oh God! Have mercy on us all!"

A sinister chuckle overcame the lilting music in an invisible voice, and as Madame Giry glared in horror at her daughter, Meg kept up a terrified expression, never once breaking to the giggle of pride that was going on in her mind. Ha! They would never doubt her ability to act again!

Christine was containing the same giggles to observe the growing pandemonium in the church from priest to attendants to the enraged Vicomte yet clutching her hands in a viselike grip.

"Christine," Raoul snapped in growing annoyance.

"But Christine is dead," the voice replied from every direction at once and then from the corners at random intervals came a delayed echo. "Dead, …dead, …dead…."

Abruptly releasing his bride, the Vicomte stood at the foot of the altar and shouted out over his appalled crowd, "Come out and face me, you freak!" And even as he waved warning to the armed guards in the back, Christine noted that not even they were paying attention, too engrossed in looking about for a bodiless voice.

"_My_ Christine," Erik called again, and she shivered unconscious delight down her spine.

"_Always_ yours," she dared to whisper back and knew he heard.

"Sing with me, _ange_," he suddenly commanded, and his beautiful golden voice lifted in melody; appropriately chosen for a church setting, it was a part of the requiem mass, a ceremony for the dead.

Christine was momentarily as agape as her audience. She had known of Erik's ventriloquist skills as he had once described them to her from his tortured days in a Gypsy carnival as a boy but never had she been witness to them beyond a voice appearing anywhere he chose. His current point of sound was the mouth of a glorious statue of the angel Gabriel on one side of the altar. She like every person in attendance was half-certain that the statue itself was singing the minor tune. It was just that flawless of a trick, so much so that even as her mind yet wondered where he was, her body was unconsciously creeping toward the statue and choosing to willingly play along with angels.

As every set of eyes in the room was riveted to a marble statue, Christine savoured the beauty of Erik's voice and sought to match its ethereal exquisiteness as she joined her own with its legato line. Even though she could not see him, she could hear his elation, a smile that slightly brightened the color of his tone, a shiver that jarred the stability of his vibrato, all of these clues so subtle to anyone else, and yet she knew to hunt them out and cling to them as proof of his corporeal existence, as not for the first time in their sordid relationship, she had to make herself believe in his tangibility. An angel brought into existence just for her, that was how she had once considered it and thrilled to be able to call it again. _Her_ angel.

As she sang and felt the power of her own voice reverberating off of the stained glass windows and filling space, Erik shifted to a counterpoint, harmonizing so precisely and inextricably that surely anyone listening could decipher how perfectly their timbres complimented and completed one another, how integral they seemed to each other. A perfect match and solitary fit. And heightening her performance, Christine lifted eager arms toward a singing statue, practically begging him to come for her and carry her away with him to heaven or wherever marble statues were apt to exist as a reality, the world of fairytales perhaps.

Suddenly remembering that this was not a scene out of some opera, Raoul was shaken back into himself, and catching one of Christine's lace-clad arms to yank it down, he shouted over the melody, shattering pitch with dissonance, "Stop this!"

"Why?" Christine dared to demand as she defiantly faced him. Strong, strong was remaining unwavering in a room full of people who thrived at the top of a mortal chain of hierarchy and admitting that one existed at the base of life below their rich-soled shoes. "Every word is true. I belong to the Opera Ghost and rightly so. You can't marry a dead woman, Raoul."

"Not dead, love," came the eerie reply, no longer out of the mouth of a statue but echoing in every direction. "A ghost, but a bride befitting an Opera Ghost to be sure."

"What do they mean by dead?" The only one to dare speak up in an audience full of aghast but riveted spectators was the Comtesse de Chagny from her place in the front pew. "Every bit of this must be some sort of jest; I cannot rationalize a plausible explanation for such a display. The wedding of a Vicomte treated like some sort of circus act! And now to claim that Christine is _dead_? Unseemly and indecent to say such blasphemy in a church!"

"And what do you call singing statues, I wonder," Nadir countered as he protectively came alongside Christine in the focus of far too many dagger-laced stares. "Marble that speaks and is mystically called to life, and the Comtesse is concerned over the most mundane and yet honest point of all." Sharing a look with Christine, he proclaimed over the throng, "Christine Daaé, opera diva of the stage, is by all legal accounts _dead_, and therefore, Monsieur Vicomte, you cannot marry her."

The enraged Vicomte was a breath away from lunging at the daroga, and if not for the outraged stare on his aunt's face and the low humming drone of frantic whispers between the rest, he would have acted. It was the thought of fully destroying an already tattered reputation that kept him in his place, but he still spat, "And so you've returned to abetting a murderer, monsieur, despite his own actions against your life."

"What you've done is _far_ worse in this instance," Nadir stated flatly before amplifying a call over the hum of the crowd. "Let it be vividly known that the Vicomte de Chagny wanted to wed an opera diva, and to hide such a seemingly disgraceful fact, he chose to lie and fake her death and disguise her as an aristocrat instead. A vicomte and an opera singer is an unacceptable match, but worse than that is the revelation that the Vicomte is a coward who was once at the mercy of the great Opera Ghost, weeping for his life and actually cursing and denouncing his love for Christine while we sweltered in a torture chamber. Perhaps it was the heat that inspired your words, monsieur, but did you not say that the life of a vicomte is worth far more than an opera singer."

Growling rage, Raoul shouted, "I will _not_ justify myself to _you_! I _love_ Christine."

"Maybe so, but you love yourself more," Nadir replied with a nonchalant shrug. "You would have given her up for your freedom that night, and had Erik not let her go, you wouldn't have had a difficult time moving onward, not when Christine is a prize more than a woman to you. A trophy, and by your own ignorant doing, you can't even marry her."

Christine posed no protest to the daroga's claims, even if a part of her wanted to yet believe in the love behind Raoul's every concocted manipulation. It was the lingering tie to the friend of her youth that did not want to see the truth and wanted to keep innocent eyes amidst reality, but more and more, the blatancy was peeking in and with it, the stark brightness that stole the fuzzy edges away.

"Christine," Raoul attempted with an appeasing expression, and she could not tell if it was for her or for their observing audience. "Don't listen to this nonsense. …I don't want to lose you."

"No," she argued back, "you don't want to _lose_, and most especially not to Erik. You threatened his life, not to keep me but to hurt him because he couldn't have me."

"Christine-"

"Well, I choose _him_; again and again, I would choose him whole heart and soul."

"Would you indeed?"

She knew that voice, and this time it was without the theatrics attached; it had one definite direction. And as she lifted eager eyes that longed for his image to the rose-petal enclosed aisle, she saw him, her angel, her love, the very face of death staring at her with such adoration in his mismatched stare that it made her heart sing and dance in her chest.

The gasps and horror that permeated the church should have been deafening, but Erik heard such telltale sounds as nothing more than a foreign sort of introduction to a final duet between the hero and heroine of their opera story. It could only exist in the background when the smile that lit Christine's lips outshone every unpleasant detail as glorious as salvation. But to a God-fearing people, the presence of a veritable walking corpse was not well-accepted, and as Erik stalked the aisle only holding Christine's beaming gaze, many of the finely-composed aristocrats let out screams and cries as they fled from the church in terror with shouts that the devil had risen pouring backwards. One such yell was caught by Christine, and even though it dimmed her glow with its sting, she sought to contradict every word and scurried past the equally stunned Vicomte to meet Erik in the aisle, hugging herself immediately to him with no care for the vile remarks circling their embrace that never found a single gap to sneak inside. No, hearts were protected even in a room full of thrown spears and launched arrows.

Erik stared at the top of that veiled dark head, savouring her nearness and marveling over her very existence for the millionth time. So long watching a world go by from shadows, and now made fearless by a love he felt he did not deserve, here he was, shunned and reviled as he was accustomed to but not caring for the first time. His true face exposed and abhorred, but the woman in his arms was lifting an urgent hand to idly trail his scars, and nothing spoke more to his soul than that sweetest gesture and the unconditional love in risen blue eyes that proclaimed that he was beautiful and adored.

"Damn you both!" It was only the biting curse from the Vicomte that intruded, and as they turned to face a viable fury, Christine weaved her arm securely with Erik's, clenching fingers tightly into the material of his jacket sleeve. She was adamant that this would be her ending, and nothing would be taken away.

"Words are all you have, Monsieur Vicomte," Erik taunted without sway and gestured to the emptying church behind them. "Not even your paid guards have remained to pose your threat for you."

This was, of course, not the first viewing Raoul had had of Erik's unmasked face, but he still blanched a bit when its horror consumed his line of vision and grimaced his disgust as he sneered back, "I don't need a threat, not when it stands willingly before me. There is your threat, Christine," he pointed a hand that shook in its course at Erik and his face. "I wanted to protect you from every danger, but especially this one. How easily you forget all he's done, his past sins and every transgression he put upon your shoulders! You came to me out of fear for him; do you not recall it anymore? A fear for your own life because of what he is and a temper that is unpredictable and terrifying. You're so certain that such realities don't matter, but what happens if you anger him, Christine? What happens if you digress from being his perfect little porcelain doll?"

A sardonic laugh fell from Erik's lips as he added, "Well, she's already learned what happens when she refuses your own chosen depiction of who she should be: you lock her in with armed guards and insistences of sacrifice."

"Not much different from what you yourself did, or has that been forgotten as well?" The Vicomte only granted him one last glare before focusing solely on his lost bride. "Christine, we've played something like this scene before. You made the same choice then that you do now, but you left with _me_ that night. And I gave you a future worthy of you. That must mean something."

"You gave me a future that I never asked for," Christine stated, her grip never loosening on Erik, "and one you carried out for me with never a consideration to what I wanted. You took away music and the opera; you took away my very _life_, and in doing so, hoped to kill my memories of Erik. Erik's sin was in wanting to control a heart that was already his; your was in wanting to steal it." Shaking her head somberly, she whispered, "I never loved you, Raoul; you know that, and it could never have been enough. How could it be? So to punish me, you tried to break my heart."

"Christine," Raoul warned one last time, and suddenly conscious of the observance of his aunt watching in horror from her pew, he muttered lowly, "He's a murdering monster."

"No," Christine posed back. "Monsters don't have hearts, and Erik does. I'm loved by it every moment of every day to know it is true. …I'm sorry, Raoul. …Leave us be."

The Vicomte was searching for another protest when the Comtesse left her spot and rushed to grab hold of her nephew between continued gaping stares at Erik. In a sharp tone, Constance insisted the same, "Let them go, Raoul. You would have truly dared to disgrace the de Chagny name by marrying an _opera singer_? You are fortunate that your father isn't alive to see this day; all that he did to establish our family, and you've practically ruined it with this stain! We'll be lucky if we can ever hold our heads up high again! What were you thinking to dabble with this tart?"

"I love her," Raoul attempted, but Constance was resolved.

"You should know better!" the Comtesse snapped, and it surprised Christine that to Constance, it really was that simple. "Come on, Raoul. Let's take our leave of this nightmare and never speak of it again!"

Any more protests were futile. With one more abhorred stare at Erik's face, the Comtesse fled down the aisle, careful as she passed him not even to allow the hem of her skirt to touch his shape.

"Now aren't you thrilled that you're not a part of _that_ family?" Meg quietly bid as she came alongside Christine and contained an unavoidable giggle behind a raised hand.

Christine wanted to answer with her own sense of lightness, but all thoughts of smiles abandoned her as Raoul halted his exit before her. She noticed instantly how Erik tensed, fisting the hand at the end of the arm she still clutched, ready for an attack if necessary.

"I advise you to listen to your aunt," Erik tightly commanded.

Glaring back at the disfigured man, Raoul arrogantly decided, "Christine isn't worth my death. I won't be fool enough to play her hero again. God help you, Christine, if you come to regret your choices and their consequences because I won't be there to save you."

And that was all. The Vicomte de Chagny stalked past them without even a look back, choosing a haughty air over the true defeat of a deserted groom, but Christine did not feel Erik's posture calm and relax even after Raoul was completely gone from sight. He was yet taking no chances.

"Well, I hope that means this is over," Meg said before a shrill shout made her wince.

"Meg Giry!", and her mother came charging down the vacant aisle, casting only one glance at Erik before fixing all of her attention on her daughter. "Haven't I raised you better than that? Yelling out such obscenities at a wedding that we were privileged enough to be allowed to attend? Where is your propriety?"

Meg only lowered her golden head dutifully, already having anticipated exactly the chosen literature of this particular scolding and what her own response would be. "I'm sorry to shame our existence, Mama," she dramatically stated, "but I was only trying to help Christine win her true love. If you want to punish me for it, then I will not pose an argument, but I do encourage you to look at how happy Christine is and then consider what would have been her fate had I not interfered. Tragic, Mama, to be sure."

And her humility had the desired effects as Madame Giry looked at a diligently nodding Christine and a half-annoyed Erik as he made a face of disgust by the depth of such overdone melodrama. Not even the stage was that exaggerated!

Huffing a slight concession, the ballet mistress decided, "Let's go and see if the Comtesse will allow us back in her house to collect our things, and then I think it best that we start for home. Games of pretend are enjoyable only so long. Wouldn't you agree, Christine?"

"Yes, Madame." And Christine meant it wholeheartedly to consider four months lost to her own game as she inched closer to Erik and felt that he was finally starting to calm beside her.

"Are you coming back to the opera, Christine?" Meg excitedly asked as she watched her mother impatiently gesturing for their leave. "I say, blame the Opera Ghost for your disappearance and supposed death and then make a grand return." The little ballerina cast a wary look at Erik, and as the sight of his scarred face made her anxiety rise, she quickly insisted, "Or maybe not…not blame the Opera Ghost, not if that means that the Opera Ghost will return as well with a vengeance…. You make the choice, but…well, it would be wonderful to have you home."

Christine could not deny that as with a frantic hug, Meg scurried out of the church after her mother, giving only a quick wave behind her.

"It _is_ your choice," Erik reminded, finally able to face his beloved now that their uneasy audience had dissipated. "Say the word, and I'll have us back in Paris with you as the featured soprano. And the little Giry inspired me with her rambling. A torrid tale of the manner in which you cheated death would draw an even greater audience. Everyone in the world would want to see the ghost soprano."

"No more ghosts," Nadir piqued up, reminding them of his presence. "Or notes or opera house accidents or singing statues or potentially life-threatening situations at least for a little while. Let me recover my own wits from this one first please. At least give us all a chance to get settled back in Paris before we begin this insanity all over again."

"Then you are returning to Paris as well," Erik concluded matter of factly.

"Well, of course. I have nothing better to do with my life than keep an eye out for yours, _and_ I expect a wedding invitation as well as an official request for a friendly supper once we are back."

"And you're really so certain that you'd rather not return to Persia instead?" Erik offered with annoyance that only grew as Christine released his arm to hug the daroga. He realized at that moment that he'd always be a little disappointed with every second of his life that she was not right at his side.

"Take care," Christine told Nadir, "and thank you."

"I should say the same, only I will add to take care of _him_."

"Of course."

With a wry smile upon his lips, Nadir exchanged a parting nod with Erik and insisted, "I will see you when you get back."

And in lieu of a sarcastic reply, all Erik said with sincerity was, "Thank you." And that was enough. Every bit of gratitude was poured into two words and felt as acutely as if they had been a hundred instead.

Nadir accepted it with a full heart and left the couple with a new peace that his conscience had not been privileged enough to know in months. Finally, things were in their rightful place.

Eagerly hugging herself to his side again, Christine proudly stated, "You had quite a bit of help today, didn't you? You, the almighty Opera Ghost, who tends to weave his schemes unaided." But all teasing faded as she felt him sag against her with arms that only then shook as they encircled her. "That was all a façade. You were not nearly as confident as you were letting on. Erik, …you were afraid."

"My fear, as you are apt to call it, was justifiable," he replied, brushing a kiss to her brow. "I had something so dear that I could have lost."

"Erik," she breathed adoringly as her fingers traced the features of his face.

"Devil."

The term alone caused Erik's body to go rigid again down the lengths of every muscle, and he lifted a cold glare to the priest who had silently observed the entire scene crouched beside the altar. "Devil, monsieur?" he coldly demanded, lifting his face to make every distorted feature vividly apparent. "Is that what I am to a man of God?"

"Yes, of course, the devil incarnate," the priest nervously stammered with horror staring back.

But it was Christine who retorted before Erik could. "How do you know that?" she snapped defiantly. "How can you look at him and call him the devil?"

"He is ugly-"

"No," she interrupted, "he is _different_, different than every other human being, and who is to say that that makes him evil? How can you be certain that his face doesn't make him an angel of God instead? Your ideals of beauty are composed in the principle normality of the human race, but God may consider him as beautiful as I do. You judge what you know nothing of, monsieur."

Erik was watching her in awe of her every word and the strength she had grown into carrying. To a man who had spent his lifetime defending himself, facing a cruel assessment at every turn and bend in the road of existence alone, he adored her in that moment more than he ever had and formed a silent prayer to be able to live up to her version of his spirit.

"But his face makes him condemned," the priest dared to protest.

"No," Christine insisted, "_you_ make him condemned, you and the rest of the world who deem his face as a curse when I who love him deem it as a blessing." As she vowed, she gazed at that face and its vibrant scars and read a story of ethereal brilliance in its oddities. "I love you, Erik. Let the world say what it will; it can't change my heart."

Mismatched eyes ran over every detail of her in her bridal finery as his mind recalled another paralleled time as she had vowed her love in a kiss and he had ignorantly given it away. He never would again and bent to graze his misshapen lips against hers, breathing in the merest gap between, "_You_ are the angel, and I am only your adoring worshiper kneeling at your feet, unworthy of your love. I will always be undeserving, but I will always cherish every detail of you until my dying breath. You are my _life_, Christine."

"And you are mine," she whispered back, cupping his face in her palm.

With one more delicate kiss, Erik kept her curved to his side and led her toward the door with never even a look back at the appalled priest. It didn't matter, nothing did but the woman beside him gazing at him as if he truly was her everything. He felt as blessed as she had called him.

He had promised a love story to the girl who had broken his heart, but love stories did not always have happy endings. The ending had been a question mark that he had been afraid to fully consider until that moment when threats were gone and hope took their place. Now every glimpse down that road was sunlit and beaming, spread out before them like a tapestry of dreams for the choosing. And he had no doubt that love would make every one into a sort of heaven and chase away every shadow of darkness. Love was always the light….

The End


End file.
